Fragments
by gleefulmusings
Summary: Kurt Hummel dreams of people in danger and he converses with the dead. However, the next killer in his sight might just be targeting him. Glee/Medium crossover.
1. What Dreams May Come

Fear is like a ripple on water: any tiny thing can set it off. When you throw a pebble into a lake, the water ripples and churns, disturbing whatever lies in its path. Though the waves will eventually still, though the lake will once more be smooth as glass, the pebble remains below the surface, forever changing what lies beneath. Once stirred and acknowledged, fear never truly dissipates.

* * *

_It's so dark here, dark and cold. _

_Where am I? Why does it smell like Christmas? _

_Where's Mommy? Why hasn't she come for me? _

_I'm so hungry. I was bad to eat the cookies all at once, but they were so good._

_I need to go potty. I don't want to use the bucket. That's so yucky, and it stinks. _

_I don't like it here. I just want to go home. Why can't I go home? _

_I'm a good boy. I know I am. _

_My ankle hurts, like the time I slipped and fell off the diving board at swim practice. The ankle bone's connected to the leg bone…_

_Jeff._

_Jeff is back. Mommy, where are you? Don't let him hurt me again! Please, Mommy, I'll be good. I promise! Pinky promise!_

_Too bright! My eyes hurt. Is the sun out? What day is it? Wednesday's child is full of woe…_

_"You've been a bad boy, Kevin."_

_Mommy!_

* * *

Kurt awoke with a gasp, batting at invisible hands, the cloying scents of pine and terror assaulting his senses. After a few moments, he realized he was safe in his basement bedroom, his father sleeping just upstairs, the man who could slay any monster, real or imagined, which might be lurking outside their home.

He inhaled sharply and promptly began coughing. He grabbed the bottle of water he kept by the bed for emergency hydration. The heating system in the house played havoc with his skin. He savored the sensation of the cool liquid traveling down his throat. He coughed once more before finally asserting control over his own body, trying in vain to shake off the emotional remnants of the dream.

It was never easy; he supposed it shouldn't be. He was shown these things for a reason, he knew, so that he might help those who couldn't help themselves. But did they have to affect him so damn much?

His eyes darted to his bedside alarm clock. Only four.

He debated momentarily about trying to squeeze in another two hours of sleep, but he knew it was a lost cause. If he went back to bed now, by the time he fell asleep it would be time to get up again. He had no idea who the little boy, this Kevin, was, let alone where to find him. He couldn't even tell if the dream was relating past or future events, or if it was happening in the present time. He supposed it didn't matter. Kevin needed help and, for whatever reason, he had reached out to Kurt for assistance. What difference was another two hours of sleep?

He sighed and leaned over, opening the drawer to his nightstand, from which he withdrew his sketchpad. He quickly drew a decent likeness of Kevin. Not a truly accurate representation, of course – he was no Rembrandt – but it was a good enough approximation to begin a search. He paused just long enough to note that the face looking back at him was eerily reminiscent of his own at that age: same upturned nose with a dash of freckles; same pale skin, probably from being in that cellar – was that right? A cellar? Yes. – for so damn long; same dark hair, parted on the right.

It was almost uncanny, and certainly disconcerting.

He shook his head to clear it, ripped the sketch from the pad, turned it over, and began writing as many details as he could remember in his neat, careful script. He'd go to the shop before school and fax it to Justine. Hopefully Kevin had already been reported missing so that they wouldn't have to waste time trying to discover his full identity, instead focusing on finding him and tossing that monster, Jeff, into a cell as cold and dark as where he'd hidden Kevin.

Kurt looked over at his closet, the outfit he'd chosen for the day hanging from the door and ready to embrace him with all of its fabulosity. His homework was complete and his bag already packed. He had almost four hours to kill and absolutely nothing to do. He supposed he could run through his playlist for Glee Club, though he thought it rather pointless; he had already memorized his own parts, as well as those of all the other members. He couldn't practice for fear of waking his father. The poor man was more sleep-deprived than his son. Maybe a movie? Something simple and sappy, with a horribly clichéd happy ending. He sure could go for one of those right now.

Thank goodness Carole and Finn hadn't slept over. He still didn't know how to tell them about any of this. He guessed he should have thought about that before opening his big mouth and trying to manipulate a straight boy who had no use for him as anything other than an object of complete bafflement. He supposed he should have felt guilt or contrition for his machinations, but he couldn't be bothered. He hadn't seen his father this happy since before Kurt's mother had gotten sick. In the end, that happiness was really all that mattered and, as he no longer cared what Finn thought about him, self-recriminations were a waste of time.

They probably wouldn't believe him anyway, but it was getting more difficult to conceal. The dreams came with increasing frequency as he got older. Now they were an almost nightly occurrence. With winter coming, there was no way the extension on the house could begin, so he would be sharing a bedroom with Finn for the foreseeable future. He didn't know how that was going to work. It was unfair of him to subject Finn to his special gift-without-purchase. Talking in your sleep was one thing, but it was something altogether different for a generally happy-go-lucky guy like Finn to be asked to endure late-night phone calls, sleepwalking, and night terrors.

Oh, and conversing with the dead. _That_ was a nifty parlor trick for which the Hudsons had most definitely not signed up.

Kurt sighed. There was nothing he could do about it right then, so he'd just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

* * *

He was jolted roughly from his thoughts by the shrill squawk of his cell phone. Recognizing the ring, he sighed again. That particular ring was becoming more and more irksome through no fault of its bearer; still, he smirked and thought it had been a stroke of genius when he had assigned the theme from _Terminator 2: Judgment Day_ to Justine. Sarah Connor had nothing on that broad.

He scurried over to his vanity and removed the phone from its charger.

"Good morning."

He was met with a snort. "Ain't nothing good about it, kiddo. Sorry to get you up so early."

"It's alright. I was awake."

"Another dream?" she asked after a beat.

"A kidnapping," he confirmed. "A little boy named Kevin. I've done a sketch."

"Shit," she sighed. "Kids are always the worst."

He paused. "I take it he's not why you called."

Another sigh. "Sorry, hon, but no."

"What is it?" He noted and disregarded her hesitance. "It's obviously something important, Justine. We've been  
through this too many times. If you need my help, then you'll get it."

"I just hate that I'm always dragging you into these things, Kurt."

"You're not dragging me into anything. You don't choose your cases anymore than I do my dreams, so stop whining and feeling sorry for yourself and tell me what's going on."

There was a moment of silence which seemed into stretch to eternity, followed by a harsh peal of laughter. "Does your idiot boyfriend have any idea just how lucky he is to have you?"

Kurt smiled. "I remind him daily."

"Good. If he ever doubts it, let me know. I'll keep firing until he gets the message."

* * *

Justine was still thirty miles out, but Kurt dressed quickly.

He threw open his closet and grabbed a pair of jeans from the ridiculously large supply he had procured from Wal-Mart. Well, if truth be told, he'd had his father actually go _in_ to the store and buy them.

There were some mountains which Kurt Hummel would simply never climb, and atop every single one sat a Wal-Mart.

Still, he couldn't disregard the chain's usefulness. On one side of his closet now resided an outrageous number of disposable cheap denims, long-sleeve t-shirts, and plain white Keds. He was not about to sacrifice his otherwise stunning wardrobe to the mess left behind at the more violent crime scenes. He might be crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

He grabbed the garment bag in which he'd stowed his change of clothes, his messenger bag, his cell, and the sketch of Kevin before heading upstairs. He should have time to brew a pot of coffee and down at least two cups before Justine arrived to pick him up.

* * *

"Kurt."

Kurt swallowed a sigh as he blinked in the darkened kitchen. He should have known his father would be waiting for him. He wanted to laugh. Here he was, someone who could communicate with entities unknown to most people, yet his father somehow always knew when he was trying to sneak out of the house.

_Psychic fail._

"Hi Dad," he said quietly.

"Another dream?" Burt softly asked.

"Yes."

"Details, Kurt."

He sighed. "Kidnapping. A little boy named Kevin. I've already given the specifics to Justine."

Burt grunted. "You going to look for him?"

"I don't where he is. I have a few details. Justine is hopeful."

"Sketch."

"Dad…"

Burt held out his hand. "Let me see, son."

Kurt rolled his eyes, passed it over, and waited. He wasn't surprised when, after a moment, his father's hand began trembling.

"It's not me, Dad," Kurt said gently. "Yes, there's a resemblance, but Kevin's not me. There's no one after me, Dad. I'm safe."

"This time," Burt muttered. "Coffee's ready."

"Thank you." Kurt calmly walked over to the counter and poured himself a cup, drinking it down swiftly.

It had always amused Burt that, as prissy as his son was, they shared the same taste in coffee: rich, thick, and black. He had remarked on more than one occasion that he was just fine with having a clotheshorse for a son, but had Kurt been a coffee snob, they would have had issues.

Kurt poured himself another cup, as well as one for his father, and wandered back over to the table.

"What's happened to this boy?" Burt demanded.

Kurt averted his eyes. "Kidnapping, just like I told you."

Burt raised a brow. "And?"

"And what?"

Burt glared.

Kurt learned long ago not to leave his father out of the loop. If he tried, Burt just pushed and pushed until he got the answers he wanted. Kurt had tried to shield him, tried to protect him, and he still did in some manner. He gave answers only when directly asked, and even then he was as vague as possible. Unfortunately, Burt simply had begun asking more astute questions, to the point where it was all but impossible to prevaricate.

Burt blamed himself for the dreams, even though they were the legacy of Kurt's mother. He despised that his baby, his only child and all that he had left of his wife, was forced to bear witness to such gruesome acts of depravity, to the worst man could do to his fellow man. Suzanne's gift had been of a different degree; she hadn't gotten the dreams, and most of her visions had been confined to events of a happier nature: who would fall in love with whom, the gender of an unborn child. She could communicate with those who had departed, usually to give a final message to a loved one.

Kurt had those abilities, too, but the majority of what he saw was violence.

"Kurt."

He choked as his eyes swam with unshed tears. "Please, Dad. Don't make me do this, don't make me tell you. I don't want these images in your head. I don't want to put them there. _Please_, Daddy."

Burt bit his lip and fought to control himself. Kurt already blamed himself for so much, for things in which he bore no culpability: his sexuality, the death of his mother, the bigots who sought to persecute him on a daily basis.  
He knew his heart attack had almost caused Kurt to come undone, terrified and guilty that he had put his father under so much stress that it caused his own body to betray him. It was ridiculous, of course. His own bad habits – greasy food, beer, probably the cigarettes he'd smoked when he was Kurt's age – were responsible. It infuriated him that he was so weak, so pathetic, that he was now just another person Kurt felt responsible to safeguard.

He hated that his son bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, and yet the boy was always searching for and willing to add even more baggage to his burden. His heart attack had served to remind them both of his mortality, of the very real truth that one day he would not be there to help his son. That was why he pressed Kurt so hard to talk about what he saw, so that he wouldn't become so consumed by pain and darkness that he was lost to both of them long before Burt exited this life.

The guidance counselor, the one named after baked goods, knew about the dreams; she even believed they were real. She tried to help Kurt as best she could, but there were limits to what she could do, given her position and training. Lima was the seat of Allen County, and McKinley was the regional high school. As much as she liked Kurt, perhaps even loved him in some manner, she had a thousand other students whom she was supposed to shepherd.  
Burt was of the opinion that his son required an actual therapist, perhaps one whose only client was Kurt Hummel. Hell, studying Kurt and the things he saw could make a career. But Kurt always refused professional help, arguing that most likely what would occur would be him going in to some stuffy office, baring his soul, and being laughed right out the door. It was probably true, Burt realized. Kurt might even have dreamed of it.

The dreams hadn't started until after Suzanne's death, so Kurt was never afforded her help or guidance. Burt wasn't sure she even would have been able to help their son, and Lord knew Burt himself had been of little use. Kurt's abilities, even at eight years old, had been far beyond the scope of Suzanne's experience.

Once, Burt had been terrified of his son's power; now he was terrified for his son's sanity.

They had tried the drugs, the ones that had left Kurt numb and indifferent to the world around him. They hadn't helped; they'd just made the dreams worse, more fragmented and nonsensical, until it reached the point where the poor boy was hardly able to differentiate between them and reality. Still, perhaps that would preferable at this point.

"No, it wouldn't," Kurt whispered. "I can't put myself through that again, Dad, no matter how much better it might make both of us feel."

"Okay, first of all, stay out of my head, boy. Second…"

Kurt stood and crossed to the sink, in which he deposited his empty mug. "No, Dad. Drugs are not the answer. They changed _me_, not the dreams." He shuddered and looked out the large bay window over the sink. Dawn was approaching. Justine would be there soon. "We've been through this. We've read what happens to people like me, those who abuse alcohol or take drugs to dull the voices. It's a temporary fix. In the long run, it just makes it worse."

He turned to face his father. "I know this is horrible for you. I know you worry about me constantly. But this isn't just about me, Dad." He gestured towards the window. "It's about those people out there, whether they're alive or dead. They need _help_, they _deserve_ justice, and if I'm able to bring them even some small measure of peace, then I'm never going to stop. I don't want praise or acknowledgment. If I manage to find Kevin, I don't care that he'll probably never know my name, as long as I can help bring him home to his mother."

Kurt sighed. "I _do_ get it, you know. Why you're scared, why you want it to stop. I'm a child without a mother; I can't even contemplate what it is to be a parent without their child. I imagine that's your greatest fear, and, no, I didn't need a ghost to tell me so."

Jesus Christ, his boy was amazing.

"Working with Justine and Liza has helped, because now I have focus. I'm part of the process; I can affect outcomes. Now I'm able to channel all of this knowledge into something productive, and I owe it to the victims and to myself to fight for them, to be their voice after they've been viciously silenced. And if it upsets you, if it drives me crazy, if it puts me in danger, well…those are risks I'm willing to take, because the only alternative is to run away and stick my head in the sand. And I'm many things, Dad, but I'm not a coward."

Fucking amazing.

Kurt tilted his head. "Justine's here. I have my clothes and my books. If I'm not back in time to pick up my car, she'll take me to school." He walked quickly toward the front door, pausing to peck his father on the cheek. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too," Burt whispered, realizing he would get no answers just now as to the missing boy or whatever heinous case demanded his son's presence in the dead of night.

He waited to sit back down until he heard the door close, until Kurt relocked the deadbolt, until the car door slammed and Justine Westgate was racing them towards Montgomery County.

He shoved a fist in his mouth to stifle his scream.


	2. Deeper Into Darkness Peering

Justine noticed Kurt's subdued behavior and declined to comment on it. She knew any concern she might express would not be welcomed, and she respected that.

She inferred from the silence that tonight's dream had been particularly heinous or that Burt Hummel had again tried to dissuade his son from leaving their home; possibly both. Regardless, she understood that there was a lot on Kurt's plate at the moment, and she refused to dump another helping of angst atop it.

But she worried.

Kurt Hummel scared her. It wasn't the dreams or the visions, the reading of minds or the extrasensory knowledge; she could deal with those things. She didn't understand them and wasn't sure she wanted to, but she could deal with them. Kurt scared her because he exuded a strength of will which was terrifying in its totality.

She knew he had troubles, that there were people who wanted to hurt him simply because of who he loved. She wanted to find those people and pistol whip them. She knew that he was frightened more often than not because of who he was and what he could do, what people could do to him. Yet he maintained an aloofness which was as humbling as it was baffling. He never showed fear, ever. It was unsettling.

His nickname around the office was Tundra: permafrost with a beautiful wrapping. He didn't know this, but Justine reckoned that if he did, it would probably amuse him.

The gossip was that, as unassuming and angelic as he appeared, his core being was pure ice. Nothing fazed him. He could tour the most brutal crime scenes and emerge seemingly unscathed. He could sit before crazed killers and vicious rapists in the cloying space of an interrogation room and meet their eyes with no difficulty, and he was never the first to look away. That which haunted others rolled off his back like water. Of course, they didn't understand that he himself was haunted, and had been long before he ever set foot in Dayton.

They all watched him closely, confused by his presence, disbelieving of the cover story that had been concocted, and though no evidence could be found to contradict it, many had tried. They resented his unprecedented access to the district attorney, Liza Capwell, and were befuddled by her warm relationship with him. Capwell, known among her compatriots as the White Diamond, beautiful and utterly intractable, was perhaps the only person Justine had met who was colder than Hummel. That they got on so well didn't surprise her, but it caused fear and unrest among the minions.

She didn't know what he was like outside of work, how he operated, how he interacted with his peers. She knew he did well in school without expending any great deal of effort. She knew he failed the occasional exam on purpose to divert suspicion, and that he spoke a ridiculous number of languages. She knew his favorite activity was driving and that he ate far less than he should. She knew his hands and feet were always cold. She heard him sing once; he didn't know she was listening or that she went home and sobbed for two hours.

She knew he had few friends, but that those who were lucky to be called such loved him with an almost disturbing ferocity, despite the fact that they truly didn't know him.

As closely as she had worked with him over the last year, in circumstances of life and death, she didn't know him. She had never met the boyfriend, but knew he didn't know about the dreams. She was unsure as to whether Kurt didn't trust the boyfriend or was trying to protect him. She supposed it didn't matter; it wasn't her business. Despite the enviable and almost pathologically codependent relationship Kurt had with his father, she suspected there was a lot Burt didn't know about his son and would never discover.  
She didn't believe anyone knew him, or that he would ever allow it.

So, no, she didn't know Kurt Hummel. But she knew there existed within her the capacity to kill whoever dared harm him.

* * *

Justine Westgate was thirty-eight years old. She was unmarried, had no children, and was content with these things.

She was born and raised in Bellingham, Washington. She hated rain, cats, and people who smiled for no reason. She stood six feet tall and was a solid one hundred-sixty pounds, the majority of which was muscle. She was fair-skinned with hazel eyes and carrot-colored hair, which curled tightly and was the bane of her existence. She hated fussing with it, but couldn't bring herself to cut it off either, so she settled for keeping it in a secure chignon at the back of her neck.

She had joined the Army right after high school. She had served seven years, was honorably discharged, and settled in Miami. She used the GI Bill to continue her education, receiving dual degrees in Criminology and Sociology within three years. She then had moved to Dayton, wanting to live somewhere with four seasons. She had actually followed a man, perhaps the only example of abject stupidity on her part. They broke up within a month and, unable to afford another move, she impulsively joined the police academy, abandoning her plans for graduate school. She still wasn't sure it had been the right decision, but it was the one she had made.

She was a ten-year veteran of the force, six of those being in homicide. She was still a detective, though she knew she could now be a lieutenant or even a sergeant, could she be bothered to take the exams. She wasn't particularly ambitious, however, and she had cottoned on early that the further one advanced, the more the job became about politics than policing. That didn't interest her, nor would she excel. She was far too blunt, cared nothing for political correctness, and was of the general opinion that everyone was an asshole until proven otherwise. Thus, she had garnered a bit of a reputation among her colleagues. She didn't care about that either; her closure rate was the highest in the department.

A large part of that was due to the boy – and no matter how mature or intelligent, he _was_ a boy – currently sitting beside her, and that fact rankled just a bit. At the end of the day, however, the last year had seen them clear over thirty major felony cases, primarily rapes and murders, including one sadistic monster who had been on his way to becoming one of the most notorious serial killers in the Midwest. The FBI was taking credit for that particular outcome, but that was irrelevant; the collar had been hers. Well, theirs. Of course, no one was to know about Hummel's involvement, and that suited him just fine.

She remembered with vivid clarity their first meeting. She had been summoned to Capwell's office, which was daunting in and of itself, one Tuesday afternoon in October. They had clashed before and would again, and while they respected the other's work ethic, they didn't like one another.

She had stormed in without having herself announced and interrupted an apparently scintillating conversation regarding Chanel's spring line. Capwell had been annoyed, but her visitor, the most outrageously gay person Justine had ever encountered, which said a lot after her years in Miami, didn't bother pausing in his apologia of all things couture. In fact, not only did he ignore her, he couldn't even trouble himself to acknowledge her presence. He continued speaking as though he hadn't been interrupted or thought her arrival beneath his notice. He was not about to be rushed or intimidated. She was mildly impressed and strangely intrigued.

Capwell had introduced them; Justine was unenthusiastic and Hummel was completely indifferent. He definitely had her attention by that point. Surly teenagers didn't faze her, but eerily composed children who wielded silence like a weapon were compelling. With his huge eyes and porcelain skin, Hummel looked like a younger sibling of the Olsen twins. Or possibly one of the Children of the Corn. She had been shocked to learn he was sixteen; she would have pegged him as at least three or four years younger.

Justine had ignored most of Capwell's blathering, more interested in sizing up the visitor. She had noticed the kid eying her khaki pants with disdain and knew he wanted to make some caustic remark but was suppressing the urge. They shook hands and she was surprised by the strength of his grip, unsure if he was trying to assert his dominance or if she had simply misjudged him due to his slight stature. Regardless, he wasn't limp-wristing her in deference to her gender, and she appreciated that.

She reluctantly shifted her focus back to Capwell, who was droning on about her mysterious source who had somehow managed to unearth crucial evidence in their last two murder cases, which was especially curious given that the victims were unrelated and the crimes perpetrated by two different suspects. Justine blinked owlishly.

"I'm sorry?"

Capwell pierced her with a glare and heaved a sigh of disapproval. Justine shifted and recalled her last trip to the principal's office during tenth grade.

"As I was saying," Capwell coolly replied, "Mister Hummel here…"

"Like the figurine?" She found it apt.

"Yes," the boy drawled, rolling his eyes, "just like that."

Feisty.

"Westgate, please pay attention," Capwell barked.

So apparently this _was_ school. Or she was being schooled. Whatever.

She forced herself to comply and then listened with incredulity as Capwell made the most ludicrous claims Justine Westgate had ever had the privilege to hear. She was so beguiled by the preposterous yarn that she couldn't even bring herself to laugh.

Capwell, sensing that her words were falling on deaf ears, sighed heavily one more and turned to Hummel. "Kurt, if you would?" she asked, waving a hand.

The boy's lips thinned, the grinding of his teeth audible. After several long seconds, he grunted what Justine assumed was acquiescence. He slowly turned toward her and studied her with a measured gaze. She didn't feel that she was being judged, but critically assessed. She had the sinking feeling that she would come up short.

"Your favorite color is purple," he said. "You don't know why, and it embarrasses you. You refuse to wear it to the office, and you're right not to; with your complexion and hair color, you would look like a walking bruise. However, all of the clothes you wear off the clock are in varying shades. Never wear those lilac capri pants again."

Justine's eyes narrowed as Capwell snorted.

"No," he continued, "I didn't research you. My laptop is in my exquisite Prada bag and you're welcome to have it forensically analyzed. I also didn't talk to your cousin Shirley in Des Moines or your sister Isabel in Seattle. You should call her, by the way. It's your turn and you're three weeks overdue. She won't call you, not after what happened last time. Incidentally, you were wrong about her boyfriend. He's going to propose next week."

Her mouth fell open.

He looked slightly to her left and frowned. "You joined the academy because it gave you a sense of power, one you never had when you were a child." He cocked his head. "Your grandmother was murdered when you were nine. She was your primary caregiver. You've never gotten over it.

"They arrested and charged a teenager who lived up the street and delivered her groceries. The case was weak and the evidence circumstantial. He went to trial and was acquitted, but he had been so vilified in the press and was so hated by the community, he hung himself two weeks later."

"That's public record," she spat.

He raised a brow. "Is it? Well, how about this: you never believed he was guilty, and you were right."

Her heart had felt like it would burst forth from her chest, the sound of her racing blood thrummed in her ears.

"She was stabbed fourteen times, but the fatal wound was here," he said, reaching over and ghosting a finger in a straight line down her left shoulder blade. "Eight-inch knife, serrated, taken from her own kitchen. It pierced her heart. It wouldn't have necessarily killed her, but she exsanguinated before she was found."

She flinched away from him, curling her hands into fists to stop the tremors shooting through them.

"It was your uncle, David. You suspected him but never said anything. It haunts you to this day."

She slowly exhaled through her nose in a futile attempt to regain control of her breath.

"He was an alcoholic and a drug addict. You never liked him. He creeped you out, and you never again ignored your gut instinct, except for the reason you moved here. But we don't need to discuss that, do we?"

There had been no malice in his tone, no condescension. Rather, he had spoken with no inflection at all, as if he were an automaton who just happened to know her most private pain and was reciting it because he saw no reason not to do otherwise. Hell, he hadn't even sounded interested, but instead resentful that he had been forced into this action.

"If you care, he's dead now. He was killed by a dealer in Brooklyn twelve years ago. He's buried in Potter's Field. Would you like the plot number?"

"How do you know this?" she had hissed.

"Your grandmother told me. She's standing right beside you."

It had taken four more cases until she trusted him. After that, she had never doubted him again.

* * *

The silence was oppressive and the two coffees she had downed on her way to his house had left her jittery and needing to pee.

He had no idea as to their destination or what they would find when they got there; he preferred it that way. It was his method. When going to scenes of which he had not dreamt, he wanted no preconceived ideas or half-assed assumptions coloring his impressions. She gave him extra points for that, not that he needed them or would have cared.

"Tell me again about the boy," she said.

She hated dredging it up for him, but knew he didn't mind. Going over the facts helped to order his mind, to sharpen his senses and reexamine the dream from every conceivable angle. She admired his tenacity and dedication but, all the same, she found it slightly morbid and somewhat obsessive. At his intake of breath, she knew he was preparing to launch himself into what she had deemed his Court Reporter mode, in which he'd state the facts as he knew them and nothing more.

"His name is Kevin. I didn't get a last name. He's being held in a wooded area, most likely a cabin. He was locked in a closet, in a cellar, I believe. He looks young, somewhere between four and six. You've seen the sketch."

"Kind of spooky, huh?" she asked, not expecting an answer.

She didn't get one.

"He wanted his mother and made no mention of a father. I can't speculate as to whether he's simply closer to his mother or if the father is out of the picture. The abductor's name is Jeff. No last name. I don't know if he knew Jeff prior to the kidnapping or if the man supplied his name in an effort to personalize himself to the victim. It's possible he's the mother's boyfriend or perhaps some relative, but there was an air of familiarity between them. As it was impossible for me to determine the length of time the man has had him, I suppose the point is moot."

"Not necessarily. We'll explore every angle."

"I don't know if he's from Dayton or even Ohio. They could be anywhere."

It was unlikely, they both knew. His dreams were usually always connected to his physical location in some manner.

She shrugged. "We'll do a search and put the sketch out on the wire. We'll find him."

Kurt looked out the side window and was silent for several moments.

"He's been raped at least once," he finally said. "He…was in pain."

She tightened her hands on the steering wheel but said nothing.

* * *

They at last pulled up in front of a well-maintained single family home in Kettering, a suburb of Dayton that was so large it sprawled across two counties.

Kurt studied the house from the car for a few moments. He had been in the general area last year during a series of nonviolent robberies. This section of Kettering was considered to be relatively affluent, middle-to-upper class, and predominantly white. The homes were a step down from McMansions, but were spacious and far enough apart from each other that your neighbor wouldn't necessarily hear your screams. Lovely.

The driveway was enormous and somewhat out of proportion to the property, leading up to an attached three-car garage. The families in this area were somewhat older; that was, established. Owners were usually white-collar and between the ages of forty to fifty-five, with teenage children or young adults who were already out of the house. There was a silver Mercedes S-class, a fairly new model, parked in front. It suggested a family car. He suspected the garage itself contained at least two other vehicles, one of which was probably a sports car, either belonging to a teenager or serving as a midlife crisis penile extension for the husband. He could be wrong, he supposed, and in this economy, it was possible the family was in hock up to their eyeballs, though he doubted it.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yes, of course."

They exited the car, Justine taking point, and walked up quickly toward the entry, where a single officer stood guard. Kurt quickly withdrew his badge and slipped it on, over his neck. He didn't recognize the guard, which was never a good sign, and steeled himself for a confrontation.

Justine flashed her badge imperiously and was unsurprised when the guard snapped to attention and went so far as to salute her. He must have been told to expect her. Excellent. She loved instilling fear in inferiors.

"Westgate," she snapped. "Homicide. The scene's been processed?"

He bobbed his head. "Yes, ma'am. CSU just left and the bodies are being delivered to the medical examiner."

She grunted and nodded.

"Did you bring your kid to a crime scene?" he asked in disbelief. "What is he? Thirteen?"

Oh, this was going to be _good_. She said nothing, preferring to let Hummel take the lead. Sure enough, she felt the temperature around her suddenly plummet. She looked over at him and silently laughed at the epic cuntface Hummel was throwing at this poor rookie. Oh, well. Everyone had to be broken in sometime.

"If your assessment of my age is any indication of your intuitive abilities," Kurt said coldly, "it is no surprise that you have been relegated to standing by the door of an empty house."

The officer opened his mouth to issue what was sure to be a witty rejoinder, or more likely a pathetic threat, but Kurt just barreled ahead, taking a step forward and peering disdainfully at his nametag.

"Actually, Officer _Ramos_, I'm seventeen. Now that we've deduced that your instincts are in fact quite poor and that you were left here because no one else could be spared, let's move on. Detective Westgate is not my mother, but perhaps you would like to continue to insult her by trying to guess _her_ age. I'm sure she would be amused. I know I certainly would be."

The poor man opened and closed his mouth several times, though no sound emerged. Justine was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from howling with laughter. She'd been the target of Hummel's wrath before and it was not an experience she cared to repeat ever again. That said, it was an absolute scream to watch him shred someone else. She knew she probably should try to rein him in, but then he simply would have turned on her and no one wanted that.

"Well?" Kurt demanded, impatiently tapping a foot. "Are you stalling, or are you simply unable to count past twenty without dropping your pants?"

Justine lost it and snorted, choking on her wheezing laughter. Officer Ramos colored darkly but appeared at a loss for words.

Kurt merely raised a brow. "Next time, pay more attention to IDs rather than your own assumptions." He raised his own badge in his hand. "Kurt Hummel, Office of the District Attorney. If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact Liza Capwell. I'm sure she would appreciate being woken at this hour, don't you? Excuse me."

With that, he stomped up onto the raised entryway, quickly snapped on a pair of latex gloves and paper footies from the scene kit stationed by the door, and entered the home.

Justine watched Ramos' stunned expression with merriment dancing in her eyes. Yet another classic example of the force of nature that was Kurt Hummel and the victims left in his wake.

"That was Tundra?" he whispered.

She nodded. "It was."

He shivered. "Holy shit," he muttered, exhaling noisily. "They weren't kidding."

"They really weren't," she affably agreed.

She gave him a friendly punch on the arm with just enough force to impart that he had fucked up, before putting on her own gloves and footies and following Kurt into the house.


	3. Will to Light

_"Dreams have only one owner at a time. That's why dreamers are lonely."_  
~ Erma Bombeck

_Sleep, sleep, happy child,  
All creation slept and smil'd;  
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,  
While o'er thee thy mother weep._

~ William Blake, _A Cradle Song_

* * *

Death, Kurt had long ago discovered, had a distinct smell.

It was _off_, as though something had turned or gone stale. That was how he heard it phrased by Justine and the others, although he didn't necessarily agree. Death smelled like emotion, like mourning and missed opportunities and regrets. Death smelled bitter.

He didn't like that smell. He didn't like walking into a place where his arrival was noteworthy only because Death itself had just departed.

Rooms dripped with psychic remnants, with emotions that had been reined in for far too long and were now allowed to roam free, every single one punching him in the face. Houses were the worst. Offices and small apartments were tolerable; they gave off a transient feeling, as if they knew they were temporary and unimportant, just stops along the way for otherwise busy people. But houses were repositories for energy, both positive and negative, filled with hopes and dreams, resentments and devastations. Such energies built up over time, sometimes over generations, and those who had the ability to read those energies were often overwhelmed.

Violent deaths smelled particularly offensive. Once spilled, the stench of blood hung heavy in the air and, to those were who sensitive enough, it always would. It never truly dissipated, no matter how carefully or thoroughly one might scrub. Fresh blood smelled cloying and sweet, almost sickeningly so, like syrup or cotton candy. It was enough to overpower everything else. But when it settled, when it faded just enough, when it still glistened like paint on the verge of drying, that's when the other scents rose to the fore: copper pots, filed iron, and fear. That's what he smelled now, as well as cooling Chinese food and sulfur.

Sulfur usually meant a gun had been recently fired. He grimaced. Guns made a mess of things.

Kurt prided himself on his ability to control his emotions, to shut them away until he was ready to deal with them in a logical manner, in some neutral space where he didn't have to fear creating a feedback loop with extraneous energies that were not his own. This ability wasn't instinctive but had nonetheless been bred into him in response to the challenges of his particular life. When he encountered something unpleasant, he simply shut down so that he might box up that unpleasantness before depositing it in a place in his mind where he could unpack it later at his discretion. He then carried on as if he had never been affected.

He wasn't sure if he liked this ability, was fairly certain that it was unhealthy, didn't understand why people envied it, but he relied on it and took comfort in it when comfort was in short supply. Like now.

As he stood in the foyer of the empty house, its grand staircase looking down at him, the red carpeting like the lolling tongue of a rabid dog, he knew this was going to be bad.

He began his breathing exercises, the ones he used prior to his vocal warm-up techniques, for he had found they also had the side effects of dispelling his panic and forcing his focus. He blinked once, owlishly, and felt a sense of calm wash over him. He didn't know if it was genuine or if it was merely a defense mechanism that was, by now, Pavlovian. He didn't much care either way.

He looked down at the floor, a gleaming Italian marble that he knew was imported and not featured at those large warehouse stores which claimed to offer wholesale prices for interior design projects. It was beautiful, he conceded, though slightly tacky and inappropriate for this style of house. It begged to be noticed.

Kurt felt that anything which tried so hard didn't warrant attention, like that horrid Technicolor monstrosity Mercedes insisted was a jacket, or Rachel Berry.

He stopped himself there, fully aware that he was about to launch into Haughty Bitch Mode and set about judging everything which crossed his eyes. He couldn't afford to indulge that vanity.

Fucking defense mechanisms.

He had to pay attention to that which truly mattered and, unfortunately, that hideous abstract on the far wall would not welcome his opinion of its merits, no matter how valid it might be. He blinked again and shook his head to clear it, trying to get his bearings.

He peeked into the room immediately to his right. It was pristine and looked barely used, probably functioning as a parlor or formal sitting room. All that was missing was the plastic sheeting to safeguard the furniture.

He had never understood that principle. Square footage was simply too valuable to squander. He firmly believed that opportunities for fashion also extended to home furnishing, but what was the point if no one used or saw it? That was just a waste of money and potential closet space.

He frowned deeply. Focus, he told himself. He heard the distant ticking of the anniversary clock on the mantel.

The room opposite that was a library, one which he instantly envied and in which he wished to take up a semi-permanent residence. Mahogany walls, each outfitted with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, were filled to overflowing. He felt his inner Hermione Granger fight for release, wanting to storm in, find a catalogue, and peruse its offerings to his heart's content. He forced himself to look away and not be a complete geek.

He noted that neither room appeared disturbed and he therefore inferred the motive was not simple robbery. Of course not; that would have been too easy. So, premeditation then, and Justine would only have involved him if there were no other leads. Tremendous.

Well, as long as there was no pressure.

He smirked and rolled his eyes.

* * *

Justine stood silently behind Kurt, waiting to take her cue from him. They had never explicitly discussed it, but she had learned early on that he had his own particular way of doing things and it was to her benefit to allow him to proceed without interference. Startling him or pressing him to follow her own agenda jarred him, which was why she always arranged for him to view crime scenes after they had been processed; he could work as slowly and methodically as he liked, with the bonus that there was no one other than her looking over his shoulder, questioning his presence.

Places told stories, he had explained, one just had to be patient and wait for them to be revealed. He always explored the surroundings first, wanting to get a sense of the location and the people who inhabited it, no matter how briefly. She understood this; it was part of her own ritual when examining a scene. It was eerie, those little idiosyncrasies they shared. Sometimes she wondered if he had plucked her methods from her mind, or if she was mimicking him, providing action to thoughts she usually ignored. It didn't trouble her. They worked well together and that was what mattered.

Hummel insisted that he be given no prior information to cases not precipitated by a dream, preferring to glean his own impressions and draw his own conclusions rather than be saddled with the suppositions of others. She approved; it was, after all, how she operated. Eerie.

She watched as he crossed to the alarm panel on the hall wall.

"Was it disengaged when the first responders arrived?"

"Yes," she said carefully, "the wires were cut. The neighbors never heard the siren, though. We're having a company tech meet CSU later this morning to find out what went wrong."

He nodded once and stared at the keyboard, his hand poised to touch it.

She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. She knew he hated this part of his gift and used it only when he thought it absolutely necessary. She had looked it up once not long after they had been partnered, she supposed they were partners, when she was desperate to rationalize his powers to her own mind.

It was called psychometry, the ability to divine psychic impressions from an object through touch. She didn't know if he was aware of the technical term. He never seemed interested in qualifying what he could do, didn't wish to pay it special consideration. He accepted his burden, but tried not to dwell on it.

Touching things made events more real than even the dreams, he had told her. It put him right in the middle of the action, but as he was conscious, the images were faster, clearer, and much more brutal. She often wondered why that was. She thought the dreams would be worse, all of those horrors able to slip past his unconscious against his will, against any barriers he might have constructed for himself. Apparently not.

Waking visions tended to be concrete and less abstract, devoid of symbolism, his subconscious not having any way to guard or protect him from the more gruesome aspects of what he saw. When he was dreaming, however, he always knew on an instinctual level that he was, in fact, dreaming. He could be completely terrified, could experience the horror and trauma of the victim or the giddy thrill of the perpetrator, and he would know that he would eventually wake up. But the visions scared the crap out of him.

She was in awe of him, but she had never envied him. Not once had she ever wished to do what he could do. She knew she couldn't handle it. She didn't see how he could. She was twice his age and had seen things which drove others to drink and some to madness. He had been doing this half his young life and was still able to walk the earth as a fully functioning person. It was frightening and not a little bit intimidating.

She watched as he quickly ran a gloved finger across the LCD display of the monitor. She heard a slight gasp and watched him shiver. She hated that he was doing this for her, hated what it was doing to him, but if he hadn't offered, she would have asked.

"He knew the code," he said quietly. "He cut the wires on his way out to confuse the issue."

She frowned. This cleared up several things and she began disregarding and reevaluating various scenarios.

"He?"

"An educated guess."

She snorted.

He sighed. "Fine. There's a masculine energy in this house which is not that of any owner. Does that make you feel better?"

Oddly, it did. She shook her head, worried for her mental health that she found the second explanation much more satisfactory than the first.

"I didn't see a face," he continued, "but I got the sense that he was tall. Well, taller than you. He was wearing surgical gloves, nondescript, like the ones we're wearing now. I assume they were unable to uncover any viable fingerprints?"

She shook her head wearily. She had accepted a long time ago that Hummel was a grammar Nazi and a walking thesaurus, and while she herself was college-educated and even appreciated that he used his big damn words in their proper context, it was too early in the morning for this shit.

Kurt nodded and turned to continue down the hallway before stilling once more and cocking his head. "How many victims?"

"Two."

"Husband and wife?"

"Yeah."

"I don't suppose either of them possessed any registered firearms?"

"No," she said slowly.

He rolled his eyes. "I can smell the nitrate and sulfur, Justine. So the murderer brought the gun with him, used it, and took it when he left." He shook his head. "Well, I'm sure we can both see where this is going. It will probably be unregistered, there will be no ballistics match, and unless the weapon turns up in the commission of another crime, we can assume it's a dead end."

That freaked her out. Not his hypothesis, which was also her own and more than likely correct, but that he could smell those things, which should have dissipated by now. She herself could detect only vague remnants, a skill she had honed over a decade, but had no doubt they was assaulting him at a much more potent level. All of his senses seemed to heighten while working a scene. She didn't think that was particularly fair, given that Hummel was already in possession of several extra senses. Still, she supposed the fact that he was using his powers for Good counted for something.

The whole thing nonetheless gave her pause. She hated that he knew what those scents were, that he knew what gunpowder smelled like. She hated being reminded that she was partially responsible for bringing him into this life. He was too young and, though he and everyone else but his father would have argued the opposite, too fragile. It was one thing to run theoretical scenarios of how a crime had occurred. It was something else altogether to be able to visualize it completely, down to the smallest detail, up to and including the taut emotions of all parties involved. Jesus, the kid was only seventeen.

"Stop," he whispered, eyes staring at the floor. "That doesn't help me. It's just distracting."

She cursed herself and nodded. She must have been projecting fairly loud for him to pick up on her thoughts. He had warned her early on about that and how to control her extraneous thoughts if she valued her privacy, especially at a crime scene, where his senses were even more abnormally attuned. He also despised her pity and self-flagellation.

He shuffled past her and toward the parlor, the paper booties on his feet causing him to stumble slightly every few steps. It was odd for her to see him so uncoordinated, if only for a moment and due to circumstances beyond his control. He was always so graceful, so poised. This small reminder of his humanity only served to make her angrier. She wanted to finish this and get him to school where he belonged, though she knew he would not allow her to rush him.

"Do they," he paused and winced at his use of the present tense, looking down at the fresh vacuum tracks on the pristine white carpeting, "have a maid or use a housekeeping service?"

She blinked. "A cleaning woman comes twice a week. Why?" She knew why, but wanted him to explain what he was thinking. He was too damn young to be so damned good at this.

"When was she last here?"

Justine consulted her notes, though she already knew the answer. "Maria Gomez's normal days are Tuesday and Friday, so she was due to come later this morning." Today was Tuesday. "She has keys and knows the alarm code. We're running a background check and confirming her alibi."

"Forced entry?"

"No."

He nodded absently. They both knew nothing would come of Gomez's interrogation, but every possibility had to be examined. It was conceivable that the murderer had copied the keys and/or learned the code via the unwitting housekeeper, although he doubted it. The killer would have been stalking the family, learning their schedules and habits, rather than the housekeeper. The key would have been stolen, copied, and then returned, most likely from the wife, who had probably wondered as to her temporarily misplaced set of keys but not have given it too much thought once they had shown up.

Stop, he told himself. He was making assumptions, and was being slightly misogynistic. The keys could have been stolen from the husband just as easily. Or perhaps there was a spare set kept somewhere within the house, or at the offices of either owner. He didn't get a sense that anyone lived in the house other than the couple.

"Children?"

"Three," she replied, "but none of them live at home."

He nodded and again looked up at the staircase, somehow knowing the murders had occurred in the master bedroom. That was usually the way. It was more intimate, it heightened the fear of the prey. To know you would die in the room you considered your sanctuary from the world was a perverse violation. He didn't want to go up there.

He cleared his throat. "Time of death?"

She suppressed a sigh. "The neighbors reported hearing the first gunshot at nine-thirty last evening, and the second just seconds later."

"Death was instantaneous?"

"No. Liver temp and rigor mortis suggest the wife was already dead and had been for at least two hours before the first gunshot was heard."

He stared. "What?"

She tried not to squirm under his ruthless, penetrating gaze. "Look," she finally said, "this is why I brought you in. We honestly have no idea what the fuck is going on here, let alone why these people were selected for this gruesome experience. I need help, Kurt."

"And I'll help you," he said. "I thought we already covered this." He waved a hand. "First things first. When did the alarm go offline?"

"The last activity registered at five-thirty that evening. Witnesses report seeing the wife returning home at that time."

"What was her profession?"

"Dermatologist. She has a private practice in Huber Heights. Her last appointment ended just after four-thirty."

"We're assuming the killer either surprised her at the door and forced her to let him in, or he was lying in wait for her?"

She debated. "The second, I think. The husband was already home. Government holiday."

His eyes narrowed. "And what did he do?"

She averted her eyes. "City councilman."

"Shit."

She had heard him swear before, but it was such a rare occurrence, it always took her by surprise. "Exactly. Everyone from the governor on down is breathing down Capwell's neck."

He snorted and shook his head. "It always amazes me how she's the first in the line of fire. It's not Liza's job to solve the case, just to prosecute the perpetrator."

Justine shrugged, mildly annoyed by how protective he was of Capwell. It wasn't as though she needed his defense. She had the money and connections to do whatever the hell she wanted. If the D.A. gig went south, she would be just fine. However, if this case got fucked up, Justine would be cleaning latrines for the next two years.

"She's an elected official and the one most closely involved here. All eyes are on her, yeah, but she likes that. She's putting out some fires with the press, otherwise she'd be here herself."

He looked into her eyes. "We will solve this."

She swallowed heavily. Goddamn it. She had just ensured that he'd push himself to the brink to help her as much as possible. She hated that he would do that for her. She hated that she would let him.

* * *

"Okay!" he said briskly, in that perky tone she loathed, the one she knew was leftover from his cheerleading days. She knew he was nervous and scared and would admit to neither. "So we know the wife arrived home at five-thirty yesterday evening. The husband, and presumably the killer, were waiting for her. What else?"

"A large order of Chinese food was placed by the husband at four-thirty and was delivered just before five, so either the wife called to let him know when she would be home, or they had already compared schedules."

"So the killer arrived after the delivery, sometime between five and five-thirty?" He liked playing the speculation game. It calmed both of them down and forced them to pay attention to matters at hand.

She shrugged. "We can't assume that; the killer could have already been present. The deliveryman was interviewed and said nothing appeared out of the ordinary and that the husband seemed fine, but this was the first time he had delivered to the house, so it's not as if he knew the husband well enough to say whether his behavior was suspicious. He was also terrified from being awakened by a horde of cops descending on his parents' home in the middle of the night." She snorted. "Coupled with the fact that his English is subpar at best, he's not really a viable source of information."

He hummed noncommittally. "So, the wife left her office shortly after four-thirty. Regardless of how he knew, the husband expected her home within the hour. He went ahead and ordered them dinner, which was delivered by five, at which time, according to the dubious declarations of the deliveryman, nothing was out of the ordinary. The wife was seen by neighbors to arrive here at five-thirty."

"Yep. Nice alliteration, by the way."

"Is the car in the driveway hers, or did she park in the garage?"

She frowned. "What does it matter?"

He gave a mild shrug. "If the killer was in the house by that time, and I think we're both assuming that he was?" He raised a brow and she nodded. "I'm curious as to _where_ he was lying in wait for her: the front door or the garage door?" He paused. "It would have been dark by that time. Were the porch lights on?"

"They were when first response arrived."

"So if he had met her at the front door, there's a chance a neighbor might have seen him. That's a bit risky."

She glowered. "I know what this about. You want to walk the scene."

"I thought I was already doing that."

"Fuck off, Kurt," she hissed. "No way. We both know what happens when you do that."

"Not all the time," he whispered, averting his eyes like a chastised child.

She was not about to be manipulated. "Once was more than enough," she sharply countered; this was where she drew the line. "When you walk the scene as the victim, you _become_ the victim. You experience everything they did, and you can't just wake yourself up from it."

She had seen too many times the toll it took on him, and witnessing it was certainly no walk in the park. The first time it had happened, she thought he was having a seizure. The second, she thought he was possessed. The third and final time, he had lived through the victim's death and fallen unconscious for the longest fifteen minutes of Justine Westgate's life. She would never again allow him to do that, not if she could prevent it.

"I thought you wanted answers," he snapped.

Oh, good. Surly Teenage Hummel was putting in an appearance. She could deal with him a lot easier than she could Creepy Spooky Hummel.

"Not at your expense," she barked back.

"I'm touched," he drawled.

"Yeah, in the head!"

His eyes turned cold. "It amuses me that you think you are in any way in charge of me or that you could stop me."

She raised a brow. "Good points, both. But whether or not you like it, I am in charge of this operation, which you seem to forget whenever the mood strikes. Despite whatever you might think, you're not a cop, Hummel, you're a kid. You have no real authority here."

She was treading on thin ice, she knew. If there was one thing he hated, it was being thought of as a child, even though he could act like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum when he saw fit. He could call Capwell, who would get pissed off at the interruption and scream at her for impeding an investigation, because no matter how much Capwell liked Hummel, she liked solving cases a lot more. Further, he could just refuse to work with her again, which had the potential of ruining her career. Or, he could walk away from this altogether. The guilt and anguish would kill him, but he would do it to prove a point. Capwell would become enraged that such a valuable resource had been permanently alienated, and that didn't take into consideration how she would react if Hummel severed their personal relationship as well.

The problem was that Hummel wasn't a kid and hadn't been since his mother's death. He'd been forced to grow up quickly, as Justine herself had when her grandmother was killed. A dead mother and his sexuality had already ostracized him from most of his peers, and when Burt had his heart attack, that divide grew even further. That didn't even take into account the dreams. She often tried to absolve herself of her worry and guilt that she was partly responsible for the darkness which encroached upon him, her ego arguing that Hummel was simply an old soul who understood matters of life and death better than most people ever would, that he possessed the wit and demeanor of people thrice his age, that he actually preferred Capwell's treatment of him, as that of a colleague rather than Encyclopedia Brown. She was never able to convince herself fully of these things, probably because Hummel looked like a fetus.

So, no, she had no real control over him.

She had one final card to play, however, and as much as she didn't like playing it, as angry and sullen as he would become, as miserable as he could make her life, she wasn't above playing it.

"Don't make me call your father."

The reaction was immediate.

"That…was not a smart move."

Oh, she knew that.

"I'll comply for the moment," he said stiffly, "but I will not forget this."

"Understood."

* * *

Kurt angrily stalked toward the back of the house, where he assumed the kitchen and the garage door to the house were located. He would play this Justine's way, but on his own terms. He would solve this case just to prove that he could, that he wasn't a child, that he was capable. He knew he was being irrational, taking unnecessary chances. His record spoke for itself; he had nothing to prove to anyone, not even himself, but Justine had pissed him off.

He didn't relish walking the scene as the victim anymore than Justine did. He wasn't even sure it would work. There had been many instances where it had not. But that she had used her position to shoot him down so completely in an attempt to control him, even if it was for his own good, was appalling. It wasn't as though he was delusional about his own importance. Justine was a terrific cop and Capwell a superlative attorney. They didn't need him to do their jobs for them, but he was good, and helping them helped him as well.

He didn't like working cases that dragged on. First, he knew that the more time that passed, the harder the case would be to solve; evidence was lost, the memories of witnesses grew fuzzy. Second, such cases left him more emotionally vulnerable than that with which he was comfortable, like a wound that kept bleeding because it was never properly dressed. He much preferred pushing himself to his limits, gleaning all of the information he possibly could, and then moving on to the next case. He was kind of like a shark that way.

He smiled. "But with feet, and much less fins," he whispered to himself. Was it odd that he found _Buffy_ comforting? Well, he could live with being odd. He'd been living with it for a long time now.

He knew Justine was hot on his heels, that she had probably discerned what he was going to do, but knew she wouldn't interfere, not if she truly wanted the answers she said she did.

He walked up to the door leading to the garage and didn't hesitate grasping the door knob. Then he was lost in the vision.

The gloves didn't help, didn't mute anything. He hadn't expected they would.

"She entered from here," he gasped.

He could see her. Approximately five-foot-six, but the spiked heels – Prada – lent her an additional four inches. She had been in her late forties, he guessed, but could have passed for much younger. No plastic surgery or facial fillers, despite her profession. She had taken good care of herself. Only minimal makeup, no discernible sun damage. Fit, but not fanatical, she had been a trim one hundred-twenty pounds, her shapely body covered by an exquisite plum Escada suit over which she wore a highly-starched and gleaming white lab coat.

She had liked wearing that lab coat. It had made her feel powerful. She wasn't vain, but she had worked hard for her success, putting herself through college and then medical school on a budget so severe she had often gone without eating. She had never taken student loans and had worked three jobs while carrying a full course load. She had specialized in dermatology because it afforded her a private life, the family for which she had always longed. And she liked helping people feel better about the way they looked.

She had loved her life. She had adored her husband and children. She had been so very grateful for everything she had been given.

Oh god, her children.

"Kurt, pull back!"

He gasped sharply, wincing at the grip Justine had on his shoulders. He barely registered the pain, but it was enough to keep him from drowning in the memories of a dead woman.

"I'm okay," he whispered, his whole body trembling. "Justine, I promise I'm okay."

He didn't know if it was true, if he was saying it for her benefit or his own, but he reached up and laid his hands over hers, something he never did if he could avoid it, and almost fell to his knees with the force of her concern and her caring. Immediately he dropped his hands. He didn't wish to know this. He didn't want to know how much she cared for him, how much she worried for him, that she actually _liked_ him. He wanted her respect and somehow he had always known he'd had that. It wasn't that he didn't care for her as well, but it made things more difficult; it heightened the stakes.

He couldn't deal with that now. Because if he allowed himself to feel it, to feel her love for him and his for her, he would never be able to work with her. He would never be able to stop himself from worrying what might be happening to her during those hours and days where they didn't see each other, speak to each other, and had no knowledge of what the other was doing. She was a cop. One way or the other, she was always in the line of fire. He couldn't let himself care for her only to lose her.

He tamped it all down and abruptly pulled away from her. He felt her relief, as he knew she felt his. It was all so selfish, so very childish, but it was worked for them. As long as they didn't acknowledge their feelings, they were free to ignore them. As long as they believed they were colleagues and not friends, they bore each other no responsibility other than that which came with the job.

"He heard her enter the house," he whispered. "He waited for her in the bedroom."

He turned on his heel and all but ran for the stairway. He wanted this over with _now_. Justine chased after him.

"She wants to get of these clothes," he panted, racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "She hates the suits, even though she knows she looks good in them. It was a bad day. Two cases of melanoma and one of scleroderma. She cares about her patients too much. She wants a bath."

"Kurt," Justine warned.

He shook her off and arrived at the landing. He looked left, shook his head, and went right. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. The door was closed.

"It was closed then, too," he said. "She thought it was strange, but she was careful to be quiet. She thought Lyle was taking a nap."

The husband. But what was her name? He should know her name. He threw open the door.

"She didn't see him at first. Lyle, I mean. He was on the floor, blocked by the bed. She smelled the blood, recognized it for what it was."

He felt her fear, her trepidation. She had known someone was in the house with her, someone who didn't belong. She was being hunted, and she had known it, and whatever was left of her was transmitting that sense of fear to him. He felt the panic rising. He needed out of this house.

He halted in his tracks. "Two guns. Did you know there were two guns?"

Justine stepped in front of him. "Yes. He shot the husband in the knee before the wife arrived, probably in order to subdue him."

His brow furrowed. "Caliber?"

"A .38 Special."

A cop gun? Not good. "But he didn't use it for the kill shots."

"No. He used a .357 Magnum."

Kurt's eyes scanned the room. "A silencer. He used a silencer with the .38. That's why the neighbors didn't hear the first shot." He shook his head. "Why the change? Doesn't it seem strange to use such a large-caliber weapon to kill two people already subdued? It's overkill. Why not just use the .38? He already had the silencer."

He frowned. "He wanted the kill shots to be heard. He planned this carefully. Even if the neighbors hadn't heard the final shots, he made sure to strike the night before the maid was due to come. He wanted the bodies found, and quickly. Why?"

Justine shook her head helplessly.

"A .357 has double the power and velocity of the .38," he continued. "Hell, it can be used to hunt big game at a relatively close range. The choice was deliberate. So _why_?"

She found she didn't care for his question or the implications it raised. She also didn't like that he had obviously been reading up on firearms when she had specifically warned him against it. They had gone through this last year when he had gotten his hands on some forensic pathology texts and then demanded he be allowed to attend autopsies. The medical examiner had at first been alarmed by his presence, but Hummel had diffused the situation by asking astute questions and making keen observations. He had walked out with an offer to be the new part-time intake technician.

The kid was too damn smart for his own good and had a tendency to obsess. Precociousness was fine and dandy, but she wished he would focus on less gruesome subject matters. She knew it was a defense mechanism, an attempt on his part to desensitize himself from the violence surrounding him, but there were some things kids shouldn't know. She didn't want what little remained of his childhood to be sacrificed in his quest to make sense of the things he saw. She suppressed a sigh.

"Fear," he breathed. "A home invasion was her greatest fear, and the killer somehow knew that. He knew seeing her husband incapacitated would incapacitate her. Not even her training would allow her to overcome it. He preyed on her _fear_."

He felt bile splash the back of his throat. His head was swimming.

Justine looked no better. This was seriously fucked up, and how the hell had the perp known the woman's greatest fear? That wasn't a subject about which people spoke openly. How had he learned of it?

"The husband," Kurt said. "Democrat or Republican?"

"Democrat."

"Lobbied for gun control?"

"Passionately."

He nodded. "Guns were his greatest fear. Something to do with his childhood." He shook his head in frustration. "I'm not getting it. It's close, but I can't see it."

"It doesn't matter," Justine insisted. "I want you out of here."

"No," he mulishly spat, even though he was desperate to take her up on her offer. "He killed her first, because he knew the husband feared his wife dying before him." He pulled at his hair. "How does he _know_?"

Watching him fist his perfect hair and freaking out was causing her to freak out. The walls seemed to be closing in on her and she wanted out of the house immediately.

"He was alone with them for hours. What did he do? What did he say? I can't see any of it."

"Hummel! Enough!"

"No! Something is _wrong_, Justine. He's still _here_. I can _feel_ him here!"

She stilled, looking around the room reflexively, his panic making her panic. "There's no one here but us, Kurt," she said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. "Believe me, units have been up and down this house with a fine-toothed comb. I don't know what you're feeling, but it's not him."

His eyes turned glassy. "He watched them, studied them. He knew everything about them, things no one else knew. _How_?"

Scenarios ran through his mind. Minister? Therapist? Who would have access to such personal secrets? Who could be so ruthless and vicious to use them in such a manner?

"He was so detached," Kurt muttered. "He knew what made these people tick, how to use their greatest fears against them, but it was all a means to an end. He took no delight in their fear. It didn't give him any sense of power or achievement, so why bother?"

"A game?" she suggested. "Trying but failing to evoke some response within himself?"

He bit his lip. "Maybe," he conceded. But it didn't sound right, didn't _feel_ right. He looked over his shoulder. "She came in through the door, knew something was wrong, went in search of the husband. So where was the killer hiding?"

He circled the room, Justine tagging after him. Finally, after making a complete circle, he stopped once more in front of the door.

"He was waiting behind there, so he could watch her when she entered." He stared at the wall behind the door for an eternity, debating with himself.

"Don't," Justine whispered. "Please don't put yourself in his mind any more than you already have. Not right now."

Kurt shook his head. "I can't get into his mind. The only glimpses I'm getting are through her, but she lost consciousness quickly. Head injury?"

"Signs of non-fatal blunt force trauma."

"Sexual assault?"

"Negative on sight for fluids, fibers, or hairs. Clothing was not torn or damaged in any way. A rape kit will be done as part of the postmortem."

He shook his head again. "He didn't rape her." He blinked. "What about the husband?"

Justine flinched, remembering a time when sexual assault against males was almost never even considered. Though it was still vastly underreported, it was now common practice to check for signs of rape with male victims. "Negative."

"His detachment is unnerving. Maybe that's why I can't get a read on him. He wasn't afraid of getting caught, nor was he concerned with either victim overpowering him. There's no evidence to suggest he's a sexual sadist, and I don't get the sense that he enjoyed committing these murders." He frowned and fell silent.

"Talk to me, Hummel," Justine urged after several moments of silence. "Tell me what you're thinking, what you're feeling."

"It's so impersonal," Kurt finally said, "almost as if this were…_de rigeur_ for him. He expended a great deal of energy on this…mission, for lack of a better term…but I don't believe he felt rewarded in any way. There's no sense of triumph; there's no vanity in his methodology. It's as though he had a function to perform, he performed it, and then he was done."

She frowned. "Like a professional? Do you think this could be a hit?"

He didn't answer immediately, positing her question. "Perhaps, but if so, then it's sloppy. He didn't even bother disguising this as a home invasion. Nothing was stolen, the scene wasn't trashed." He shook his head. "No, not a hit. But…"

"But what?" she prompted.

He looked at her. "I need to go over there," he said, indicating the wall. He held out his hand. "Would you come with me, please?"

She startled. This was new.

He felt a blush pinking his cheeks. "I need you to ground me. Holding your hand will keep me somewhat separated from him. I need you to be my anchor, to keep me in our reality rather than his."

He didn't want to hold her hand, but there was a chance that this would work. The ties that bound them together should be strong enough to keep him from getting lost.

She nodded and slipped her hand into his. He was prepared this time, and was able to keep the stronger emotions at bay. He walked them over to the wall, upon which he placed his free hand.  
He closed his eyes and waited for the images to come to him. There were so few, and they were so _cold_. He dropped his hand from the wall and withdrew his other one from her.

"What is it?" she finally asked.

"_Evil_," he whispered. "Whoever it is, is genuinely evil. He's not insane, not a psychotic. He's evil."

"What does that mean?"

"He's driven by a will which isn't his own, but is."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, but he's done this before, Justine."

Well, that sucked. "I'll run it through ViCAP."

"It won't do you any good."

"You don't know that," she protested. Her eyes narrowed. "Or do you?"

"I do."

"Great."

"He's left us a message."

Her eyes searched his. "Where? The entire house has been thoroughly…"

"Beneath the mattress, pinned to the underside."

* * *

They turned as one to face the bed, which was perfectly made, no sign of a wrinkle, no pillow out of place.

"Are you certain?"

He raised a brow.

She sighed. "Of course you are. Help me flip it."

It was more complicated than they first realized.

"Fucking hospital corners," she grunted, tossing the comforter aside before attacking the sheets.

Finally, they unmade the bed and managed to turn the mattress. She didn't know why she was surprised when she saw the note. She really shouldn't have been. They leaned over to examine it more closely.

It was standard letter size, 8½ by 11. It was sheet music, printed out on the official Dayton Police Department stationery.

"Shit," she muttered.

He recognized the notes. _Defying Gravity_.

A very bad feeling washed over him.

Justine, not familiar with the song or what it meant to him, stared instead at the words which overlaid the music. They were written in blood, block printed, all uppercase.

"Not his," Kurt confirmed. "Nor that of last night's victims. Run it through forensics to be sure, but it's from his previous victims. He drained some of their blood and kept it."

She curled a lip. Disgusting. just _sick_. She peered closer. "Hummel…"

"I know."

_Greetings, Detective Westgate and Mister Hummel. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I look forward to furthering our association._

Her eyes widened. "The fuck?"

Kurt felt his body tremble. "A split infinitive. How gauche."

* * *

Justine had called Ramos up to process the new evidence. He kept as far away from Kurt as possible, but watched him carefully after reading the note. By this time, however, Kurt had fully reasserted his mask of cold indifference. Ramos shuddered. Tundra, indeed.

"It's getting late," Justine murmured to Kurt. "I should get you back. Why don't you skip school today, okay? I'll even write you a note."

He smirked against his will. "Thank you for the offer, but I have an oral presentation in French, as well as a physics exam."

She raised her eyebrows. "And you really think you'll be able to do well on either of those after this?"

He gave her a blank look. "Why not?"

She shook her head in confusion and pushed him out of the room, Ramos staring after them.

They carefully navigated the stairs and arrive back in the foyer.

"Capwell will want to talk with you, you know," she said.

He nodded. "She can call me."

"She'll want to do it in person."

"_Well, you can't always get want you want_," he sang.

She stared at him in fascination. It was as if the scene upstairs had never occurred. There was no haunted look in his eyes, no rasp in his voice. He looked utterly calm and almost maddeningly serene. It was bizarre, and not a little bit frightening. Still, it wasn't unusual. Which just made it that much more frightening.

"_Can't read my, can't read my, no you can't read my poker face_."

She managed to refrain from shooting him, but just barely.

She fucking hated Lady Gaga.

* * *

She gave Ramos his orders, left a message for Capwell, and returned to find Hummel standing in the living room, examining the family portrait hanging above the mantel.

"What was their name?" he asked. He needed to know, he had to call them something. Names were important.

"Anderson," she said. "The father was Lyle, the mother was Janice. Derek, the eldest child, is an attorney in Washington. He's twenty-seven and married. He's flying in as we speak."

He nodded.

"The sister is twenty-four; her name is Karen. She's a medical student at Northwestern, specializing in cardio-thoracic surgery. Her boyfriend is driving her back here. The youngest son is eighteen; he's a senior and goes to a boarding school in Westerville, just outside Columbus. Uniforms are driving him to Capwell's office. His name is Blaine."

The sun had risen. It was weak and seemed far away. He felt no warmth as it shone in on him through the car window. The leaves were already turning from their festive autumn colors to a dull brown. Thanksgiving was next week. Winter would arrive soon. He hated snow. And he was prone to windburn.

"You didn't change clothes," she observed.

"I couldn't. Not in that house."

She nodded and said nothing. She knew it was bothering him, given how fastidious he was about his appearance. He'd probably change at school. It was later than she realized. She shouldn't have kept him so long. She should never have called him.

"It's okay."

It wasn't; not by a long shot. Capwell had called her back after they left the Rothschild house, panting with fury and overwhelmed with concern for Hummel. She understood. That note was fucking scary, and no one could figure out why it had been addressed to both she _and_ Hummel. No one knew the precise nature of his involvement other than herself and Capwell, but obviously someone had been paying attention. After almost a year of secrets and lies, of trying to protect both him and themselves, Hummel was now in the crosshairs.

How the hell had the killer learned of Hummel?

"The same way he knew how best to terrorize the Andersons."

"And how is that?" she demanded.

"I have an idea," he whispered, cursing the slight tremor in his voice, knowing she would pick up on it, "but you won't like it."

"That's nothing new."

He snorted. "Touché."

She waited him out, but he gave no sign of giving in. "Well?"

"I think he's psychic, too, Justine. And he might just better at it than I am."

"Ah," she said after a long moment. "Fuck me, then."

"You're not my type."

"Fuck you!"

"I like you as a friend, but I think I'll pass."

"Hummel!"

* * *

She parked in front of McKinley and escorted him into the building, despite his protests. She'd only heard about the principal, had never met him, but she had decided he was enough of an asshole to give Hummel grief over his tardiness. She wasn't in the mood, she knew Hummel certainly wasn't, and she was really feeling the need to put a dickhead in his place. She had never done this before, knew that he didn't want her to do it now, but she had caught on to the fact that her notes to Figgins were no longer cutting it. So she'd take care of it, live and in-person.

Hummel looked like shit but seemed incognizant of that fact, though she knew it was just a facade. Dark purple shadows were like smudges beneath his eyes. His hair was kempt, but lacked its usual polish. Without the spray or the pomade or whatever the fuck he normally used, he looked normal. He was still in his Keds and his WalMart jeans and t-shirt, over which he had thrown a nondescript gray hoodie, which only further served to wash him out. Over that was his standard-issue windbreaker, which declared to all and sundry that its bearer was affiliated with the Dayton Police.

"This should be interesting," he said.

She rolled her eyes and threw open the entrance doors. Storming into the hall, she was flustered to see it was full of students. She frowned and glared down at her watch.

"They're changing classes," he said.

Terrific.

All movement and chatter immediately died down as Kurt Hummel stepped from behind Detective Justine Westgate. He squared his shoulders, tossed his hair, and affixed a sneer to his face.

"All right," he said, "Figgins' office is all the way down the hall, last doorway on the right." He pursed his lips. "Chin up. Nose up. Let's go."

He began stomping down the hallway as though it were a catwalk in Milan. He ignored the blatant stares of everyone he passed, putting an extra swish in hips as if to say that, yes, even in these horrid clothes and with a police escort, he was far more fabulous than any of them could ever hope to be.

He sailed past Karofsky, who was making Guppy Face, and refrained from bursting into laughter when Justine stopped in her tracks, looked Karosky up and down like he was a particularly vile rodent, and demanded, "What the hell are you looking at, Tubby?"

He felt the curious and worried gaze of Mercedes from all the way down the hall, but he ignored it. They were no longer close, not for months, and it had been her decision. He hadn't been surprised when she had offered Quinn a place to live, but their sudden and all-encompassing friendship had been unexpected. Still, he had known that Mercedes always wanted a best girlfriend, so he couldn't begrudge her the fact that she had found one. Tina didn't really count, as she was more his friend than hers, and he had gotten custody of both Tina and Artie after his breakup with Mercedes.

He guessed what really bothered him about the whole thing was that there had been so little fanfare. He felt the least he was owed was a screaming match. Their dissolution had been so gradual that, at first, he hadn't even realized it was happening. But the shopping trips had become few and far between, movie nights were so religiously canceled that he just gave up scheduling them, and finally the phone calls had stopped altogether. It had taken another few weeks for him to realize that he had been dumped and replaced with his blond female counterpart.

He knew it was as much his fault as hers. Once he had started working for Capwell, his time was no longer his own, and Mercedes had sensed there was much more to it than he had explained. He hadn't told her about the dreams, not because he was afraid she wouldn't believe him, but because he knew she _would_. She would have taken over his life, demanding to know the details about every dream, every case. She would have all but moved in with him, dictating his diet and his sleep patterns, insisting he see a shrink and procure some mood-altering drugs. It would have all culminated with her demanding that he resign his position, forget about the dreams, and concentrate on more important things, like school and Glee. He didn't just suppose any of this; he knew it would have happened.

So he had never told her. And, if he were honest, part of the reason for that was because he knew she would never be able to keep it to herself. Mercedes was a notorious gossip who had no filter. It was one of the things which had so endeared her to him, as he was quite similar. Still, he knew how to keep secrets when it counted. He just wasn't sure this particular situation would have counted for her.

There was also the religious aspect to consider. Mercedes was a devout Baptist and he was an atheist. He had never had an issue with her faith, but she had one with his lack of it. He knew she would have seen his abilities as proof as the existence of some god, which he severely doubted. He knew there was something beyond death, but he was unable to qualify it and had no interest in doing so. A belief in the supernatural didn't necessarily predicate a belief in the religious, at least not as far as he was concerned. The supernatural was, in his mind, simply another layer of reality for which science had not yet developed sophisticated enough equipment to detect.

And he was willing to concede that perhaps he was wrong, that perhaps there was some final arbitor who presided over souls and where they dwell for all eternity, though he didn't truly believe that. Even if that were the case, it didn't mean that the Judeo-Christian concept of god was the correct one. Perhaps it was Buddha, or a coven of ancient Greek gods, or the entire collective of Hindu theology.

And if, one day, he found himself standing before some supreme deity, he would be embarrassed and perhaps regretful. Or he might not. He didn't know, and didn't see the point in questioning it unless it happened.

It hadn't been that he didn't trust Mercedes, he trusted her with his life, but she had a tendency to obsess over him, to make everything in his life about her, so fearful that he would have something of his own that she couldn't share. He loved her with all of his heart, but he couldn't live his life for her, so he had begun pulling away, especially as the dreams demanded more and more of his waking hours. He was glad she had found Quinn, and Quinn indeed seemed devoted to her. He just wished that even some small remnant of what they had shared could have been salvaged.

It had hurt. It had almost killed him.

There were still days when he didn't even want to get out of bed. But then the fall term had started, and as sympathetic as his father was, he wouldn't allow his son to miss school. It had been all Kurt could do to keep his father from calling up Mercedes Jones and lecturing her to within an inch of her life. It wouldn't have done any good, so Kurt had determined to take the high road, lest anyone say that he had been deserving of such treatment. He still didn't know if their friendship had been a casualty of laziness, indifference, or a demand of Quinn Fabray. He supposed it didn't matter.

They were still cordial. They just weren't friends. He guessed it was better than being enemies, but there were days he wasn't so sure. At least enemies were united in their hatred for one another.

Quinn was in charge once more, head Cheerio and all, but didn't wield anywhere near the power she once had. The Glee Club had drawn lines and all stood with him against Quinn and Mercedes, though he had never asked for their support and he didn't abuse it. As far as he was concerned, it was over. He had no time for drama, and he was unfailingly polite and kind to both Mercedes _and_ Quinn, partly because he knew it confused them. They had expected a war.

Sylvester had refused to let him go completely and made him the unofficial assistant manager of the Cheerios, so while Quinn was back on top, he still outranked her. He used this position somewhat vengefully by lobbying Sylvester to allow Santana Lopez to take over for him on vocals. He had argued that her voice and range were vastly superior to those of Quinn, and it was true. So he became Santana's vocal coach while Quinn led the rest of the Cheerios in their routines. Brittany made sure that her girlfriend kept up, as Quinn frequently sought to sabotage Santana whenever the chance presented itself. It was all very tense and exhausting, but after every practice, he left the gym with his own new best friend: Santana. And that had caused quite the scandal.

Sylvester had her suspicions as to what his job with Capwell entailed, but he evaded her questions by whipping out the confidentiality excuse. She didn't like it, but she accepted it. Still, he was pretty sure that she was running an investigation of her own and that he was the focus. Well, good luck to her. If she ever discovered the truth, he knew she could be trusted with it, but he also knew she would seek to use him to her advantage, and he didn't have the time or inclination to assist her plots for world domination.

He shook his head to clear it, trying to regain his focus as he approached the principal's office. He dismissed Mercedes from his mind, knowing she would try to interrogate him at lunch. Santana would put an end to it quickly, however. Just as he reached the door, his boyfriend stepped in front of him and reached out a hand.

"Babe?"

"Good morning, Noah."

"What the hell's going on? Are you alright?"

"Of course, Noah," he said, running his thumb over the top of Puck's hand. "I had to walk a scene, that's all."

Puck's face clouded over, as it always did whenever Kurt's job was mentioned. He hated that Kurt worked for the pigs. He hated that they took Kurt's time away from him. He hated that Kurt kept secrets from him. He hated the distance those secrets created between them. He hated that Kurt had friends or colleagues or whatever that were unknown to him. He hated that Kurt was so sad all the time and that there was absolutely nothing he could do to make it better.

Kurt's job was bullshit. Whoever heard of a high school kid volunteering as an intern in the Office of the District Attorney? Why the hell would the District Attorney of another county, one in which they didn't even live, need to call a seventeen-year-old about murder cases so damn often? Why would an intern even report directly to the D.A.? Why was some female cop involved in all of this, driving Kurt everywhere like he was fucking Miss Daisy? Lies. All of it was lies. The problem was that he was pretty sure they were designed for Kurt's benefit, to protect him, and that just made Puck crazy with worry and fear.

But there was no denying that Kurt worked for Liza Capwell. There was no denying that Liza Capwell in fact often took Kurt Hummel into her confidence. There was no denying that there was a chick detective currently standing at his boyfriend's side. He supposed it was what's-her-face. Justine. Whatever.

Justine stepped forward. "This the boyfriend?"

Kurt nodded, a small smile on his face. "Yes. Detective Justine Westgate, this is my boyfriend, Noah Puckerman."

She looked him up and down, instantly despising him. She grunted. "I can see why you've been keeping him under wraps."

"Justine," Kurt warned.

"The hell?" Puck demanded. "Lady, who the fuck are you?"

"Noah!"

Justine opened her mouth to respond, but Kurt cut her off. "I don't time for this and I refuse to tolerate it. I'm late and I need a pass. You two can just head off to the nearest bathroom, drop your pants, and settle this. Noah, I'll see you at lunch. Justine, you can leave."

They both stared at him, furious at his dismissal, knowing that he could care less for their upset. Indeed, he ignored them and threw open the door to the administrative office, storming inside.

"Now you've pissed him off," Puck barked. "Thanks a lot."

"Maybe if you didn't act like a possessive fuckwit all of the time, there wouldn't be an issue."

"Lady, you don't even know me."

She shrugged with indifference. "Don't need to, but once I learned your name, I pulled your jacket. I wasn't surprised you had one. Quite a rap sheet you've got for yourself, Puckerman."

He glared at her.

"Besides, I've certainly heard enough about you. Hummel's always singing your praises, which, if you know Hummel, you understand isn't a good thing. If he's so desperate for me to like you, that just means there's a reason I shouldn't."

He opened his mouth, but at the last possible second he bit off the curse he was going to throw at her.

She smirked. "I don't know what that reason is," she continued, "and neither does Hummel, but trust me when I tell you that he's close to figuring it out. See, he's a real smart kid, smarter than most adults I know, and not much gets by him. So whatever you've done, or are in the process of doing, I hope it was worth it."

She turned and opened the door. "By the way," she growled, "if you ever hurt him, there's not a place on this earth you can hide from me. And that's assuming you survive his father."

She pushed past him, entered the office, and then turned over her shoulder and tossed him a smile. "It was so nice to meet you, Noah!"

He swallowed heavily and flinched when the door shut in his face.


	4. A Broken Winged Bird

"_In dreams the mind is constantly giving you substitutes just to protect sleep. And the same is happening while you are awake. The mind is giving you substitutes just to protect your sanity; otherwise you will be scattered in fragments._"

OSHO, _The Book of Secrets_

* * *

Sue Sylvester stood at the end of the hall and watched unobserved as Alabaster argued with his pathetic excuse for a boyfriend and an Amazon whom she didn't know. She recognized his windbreaker as police-issued, which meant he had come from his mysterious _volunteer_ position with the Office of the District Attorney of Montgomery County.

She had utilized several of her more dubious contacts to ascertain precisely what function Alabaster performed for that officious bitch Liza Capwell, yet no information could be unearthed. That was entirely bizarre and completely unacceptable. She had tried bribery, blackmail, extortion and second-degree battery, all to no avail. Whatever Hummel was doing, there was no paper trail; he reported only to Capwell, who reported to no one just what it was that he did.

His official designation was that of intern, but no one could explain why a high school junior held a position that was normally reserved for law students. There wasn't even an official summary of his job description or duties. No one could explain why he was there, how, or what he did. She supposed the only reason there wasn't an official investigation was that Hummel was not paid for whatever services he rendered.

The detective with whom he worked, Westgate, did not include Hummel's participation in her reports, yet it was apparent that he accompanied her frequently to crime scenes. He was listed as an observer in multiple interrogations, though if he spoke or asked questions, they were not part of the official record. Nevertheless, she'd had the detective investigated. She hadn't learned much more than what existed in the public record. She had used her Special Forces clearance to examine Westgate's Marine jacket, which was indeed impressive, at least by the standards of the weak and incompetent.

In sum, Kurt Hummel was a high school student who lacked the skill and credentials for the position he currently held, one which was usually assigned to a law student or paralegal. He had no real authority, yet worked exclusively with the top homicide detective and the District Attorney. He carried not only a consultant identification card, but a badge issued by the Office of the District Attorney. No one knew what privileges these afforded him, if any, although it must be assumed there were perks, otherwise there would be no purpose in him possessing them. He was viewed by his colleagues as cold, indifferent, and ruthless. They were terrified of him and likened him to arctic grass.

Sue Sylvester approved of this. In fact, she was vaguely impressed. This kid, Kurt Hummel, was far more interesting than Porcelain, the nauseatingly adorable gay moppet who had led the Cheerios to their most recent Nationals victory. Truthfully, while she was frustrated by his silence concerning his job, as well as by her own inability to ferret out information regarding said job, she liked the changes in him. Yes, he was darker and more moody, but he wasn't dressing like a vampire or indulging his teenage angst with illicit substances. Instead, he had examined his personal life and decided to make drastic alterations.

He had ditched that loudmouth busybody wannabe Patti LaBelle and instead allied himself with Santana Lopez. She wasn't all that fond of Lopez, but the girl knew who she was, took crap from no one, and never apologized for her behavior. He saw beneath Pierce's mask of insufferable stupidity to the conniving and calculating girl she truly was, helping her reinforce the façade she donned for the writhing masses of idiocy with whom they interacted. He wasn't as invested in William's merry band of misbegotten misfits as he was before, but instead saw that pitiful excuse of an extracurricular for what it was: a means to an end and nothing else.

These improvements pleased her, but she had given them no deeper thought until he had tried to resign from the Cheerios. She had attempted to force him into capitulating to her demands that he stay, only to have been intrigued when he blackmailed her into accepting his desire for a lessened role. How he had learned the things he had about her she had no idea; those secrets had been buried deep, as had the people who had once known them.

He had shown no hesitation and no remorse for his extortion, and her admiration had begun to bloom, curiosity piqued. Then he had gone one step further and insisted lead vocals be given to Lopez and not Fabray, who had been reinstalled as head Cheerio after he stepped down. On the surface, it had appeared as though he was exacting vengeance for LaBelle choosing the friendship of Fabray over his own, but she had looked beyond the simplistic. He hadn't cared about LaBelle and Fabray's sorority games; he simply wanted to punish Fabray for her backstabbing and her pathetic attempt at daring to usurp his position, both on the squad and at LaBelle's side.

And good for him! That was exactly how inferiors should be treated: as the replaceable drones they were, not as errant children who needed to be scolded.

But that was when she had begun to suspect he was far more than he was letting on, that his position with Capwell was just a cover. How else could he have possessed the temerity to blackmail her, to gather the information required to do so?

She watched as his uneasy eyes scanned the hall, taking in every student, memorizing their faces and their placement, dismissing LaBelle's searing gaze. She watched as he hurriedly removed his badge from around his neck and shoved it into his ludicrous purse.

It was all starting to add up.

Sue Sylvester knew her conspiracy theories and was fairly certain the Gay Mafia or some other mysterious and eternally whiny organization was using _her_ Alabaster to press their heinous and suspicious agenda. This would not stand! She would rescue him, deprogram him, and then reestablish his commitment to the right side. _Her_ side.

He was a plant, she was sure. It was the only logical conclusion.

She just wasn't sure for whom. NSA, FBI, Homeland Security. She knew they recruited young; she had caught a few episodes of _Alias_, which had been loosely based on the young life of one Sue Sylvester. The names had just been changed to protect the guilty and the satisfied. JJ Abrams, no doubt a relation to Wheels, would pay for co-opting her life and using it as a vehicle for that hack, Jennifer Garner. Her team of lawyers was already working on it.

Hummel was already fluent in three languages, proficient in two others, and could read and write two dead languages. He was in advanced classes and took college courses in the summer and during the winter interim. His membership in the Cheerios and that infernal choir ensured that he was able to travel to multiple locations nationwide under the guise of performing.

Oh, yes, she had compiled a dossier on Kurt Hummel. Granted, it barely scratched the surface of his flaming insouciance, but she would determine his secrets, his mettle. She wouldn't interfere with his mission, the boy was merely serving his country after all, performing his civic duty, and following in her glorious footsteps. But she would have answers.

Which was why she had outfitted with surveillance equipment, both visual and audio, in every room in this horrible internment camp which had the audacity to pass itself off as an institution of learning. The only problem was that said equipment experienced electromagnetic surges whenever Hummel was in close proximity. She hadn't yet figured out why – perhaps an implant of some kind, or a device which created a nullifying field – but she would.

Hummel was proving to be a challenge, and Sue Sylvester never ignored a challenge.

She watched as Hummel arrogantly belittled his occupational and romantic partners before storming into that depraved and amoral principal's office. She watched as the detective sneered at the boyfriend, finally reducing him to the pale and quivering mess she had always suspected him of being, before following Hummel into said den of iniquity. She watched as that asinine excuse for a haircut meandered down the hallway, face mottled and gait angry.

So perhaps the detective wasn't quite the milquetoast she had believed the wretch to be. At least she was a good judge of character as far as delinquent miscreants were concerned. Besides, Hummel could do so much better. That he wasn't actively pursuing _Better_ was a blow to her ego and she took it as a personal attack.

But that could be dealt with at a later time.

She barked vicious threats at the crowd of hooligans surrounding her, shoving some aside as their parents should have shoved them into baskets which were then placed before orphanages, and stormed toward her office.

She was very interested in the conversation Hummel and his partner were about to have with that Indian witchdoctor.

* * *

Kurt ignored Justine as she tried to make small talk, preferring instead to smile politely at Agnes, the school secretary, who had always been fond of him. He waited patiently as she wrote out his pass and he mentally reviewed his schedule, thankful that he would be missing neither of that day's exams.

"Mr. Hummel!" Figgins loudly called. "My office, posthaste!"

Kurt sighed with resignation and rolled his eyes.

"Don't let that fool antagonize you," Agnes whispered, pressing the pass into his hands.

He smiled wanly and thanked her. Justine looked at the woman with consideration, deciding she liked her.

Kurt trudged toward the principal's office, Justine hot on heels and not about to let that idiot man interrogate Hummel, not after this morning's events. It was time to put him in his place once and for all.

"Good morning, Principal Figgins," Kurt said halfheartedly.

Figgins sat behind his desk and tented his fingers. "Mr. Hummel, your tardiness is becoming an issue. If you are unable to arrive at this school at the designated time, perhaps you should consider making alternative educational arrangements."

"I don't think so," Justine snapped, stepping from behind Kurt and strolling into the office as if she owned it. She looked around and found it, and its occupant, lacking. "Listen up, Figgins, because I'm going to make this so clear that even you can't misunderstand it."

"Excuse me, miss?"

"That's Detective, you glorified warden. Detective Justine Westgate, Dayton Homicide."

He raised a brow. "Forgive me, Detective," he nodded. "However, unless I am mistaken, you are not within your jurisdiction and have no business here."

"Incorrect," she barked. "Hummel is employed by the Office of the District Attorney for Montgomery County. His _tardiness_ is a direct result of the assistance he provided this morning to a breaking case."

"Are you joking?"

She planted her hands on his desk and bent down, staring into his eyes. "Do you find double homicide to be a joking matter, Figgins?" she hissed dangerously.

"Certainly not!" he sputtered. "But I fail to see the relevance of Mr. Hummel's participation."

"That is not for you to decide. Unless _I_ am mistaken, Hummel is in the top five of his class. His duties to the District Attorney have not in any way compromised his education, nor has it resulted in any absences. A few instances of tardiness are irrelevant. He does his work and then some, and he also participates in several extracurricular activities. He's a model student and you know it."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Nevertheless, I cannot make exceptions for one student. It is unfair to those who are able to arrive and begin their scholastic endeavors at the designated time."

She paused. "You're treading on dangerous ground, Figgins. I know about what happens in this school, how students – _minors_ – are treated, how the faculty ignores it. You're right in that I have no jurisdiction in Allen County, but I have friends that do, colleagues on the Allen County force, as well as the State Police. I think they would be very interested in what you allow to pass as socialization in this school. In fact, I think it bears further investigation. Once I leave this office, you can be sure I'll be making some calls."

Kurt was content to let Justine play out her Bad Cop routine, deciding it was nice and rather refreshing to have someone other than his father fight for him, especially in this school.

Figgins began sweating. He knew it and silently cursed himself.

Justine smirked. This man was so _weak_ it was offensive.

"As long as Mr. Hummel can guarantee that from now on he will be on time…"

"Insufficient," she barked. "He is a valued employee of a government law enforcement agency. His tardiness affects no one but him, and as he is breezing through your curriculum with ridiculous ease, you and your school are inconsequential. If you in any way attempt to intimidate or suborn him, I will have you brought up on charges so fast it will make your head spin. Do not try my patience, Figgins, or you will find very quickly that I have none."

He nodded uneasily.

"Excellent," she said smoothly. "Now, in two days time, Hummel's presence is required in the Court of Montgomery County. He's been called as a material witness and will be testifying." She reached into her blazer pocket and removed a sheaf of papers. "A copy of his summons for your records. This will be an excused absence and he will make up any necessary work. Understood?"

Figgins shot to his feet. "Absolutely not!" he thundered. "This child cannot come and go as he pleases! I don't care for whom he works or under what circumstances. This is an institution of learning, and these instances are becoming a gross disruption for both the students and the faculty!"

Kurt rolled his eyes, disbelieving that this man was in any way to be taken seriously as an authoritarian.

Justine shrugged. "As you wish. Then I'll have no choice but to arrest you on charges on witness tampering and obstruction of justice."

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm completely serious," she said blandly. "You're lucky Hummel agrees to attend this school at all and you know it. I think it would be worth investigating just how much he is responsible for raising the test scores of his class. Between his own abilities and those whom he tutors, I'm guessing it's significant. Of course, should you deem such a disruption intolerable, you can personally explain to Sue Sylvester, William Schuester, the glee club, and the Cheerios why one of their stars – one who leads them to local and national competitive victories – is being forced to transfer to Carmel."

"Carmel?" Kurt interrupted.

She nodded and smirked. "The principal of Carmel went to school with Capwell. She made some inquiries on your behalf. Carmel would welcome you with open arms and guarantee you captaincy of their cheerleading squad and at least two solos as one of the leaders of Vocal Adrenaline. Your position with Capwell would be accepted with no qualms and, as long as you maintained your GPA, there would be no issue with the occasional absence or tardiness."

His eyes widened. A heady offer indeed. Granted, Carmel's cheerleading squad was pathetic, but solos in Vocal Adrenaline? He would have to leave his friends and Noah, but the curriculum of Carmel was much more advanced and would offer many more opportunities for his senior year. It was also rated higher than McKinley and would look better on college applications.

He had never before considered leaving McKinley and now he wasn't sure why. Invariably, it would solve many of his problems.

"How long have you and Liza been plotting this?" he asked, suspicion lacing his voice and his eyes narrowed.

She gave him an innocent look at which he immediately scoffed.

Figgins was alternately staring at each of them, conscious of the validity of the policewoman's threats, as well as how Hummel's departure could adversely affect his school, especially if Hummel was thrown into direct competition with his former classmates, as he most certainly would be at Carmel. He knew he needed to begin backpedaling immediately. He had been rash and arrogant, targeting Hummel for no reason – well, no good reason. He knew he would have to make concessions and would do so gladly.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he was oblivious as Justine crossed to his side of the desk, pulled the phone toward her, and dialed a number, placing it on speakerphone.

"_Office of the District Attorney_."

"Westgate for Capwell regarding Hummel."

"_Of course. One moment, please._"

Justine parked a hip against Figgins' desk and hummed a merry tune, patiently waiting. Figgins looked to Kurt to interfere, but the boy was too busy considering Carmel and the wealth of opportunities it would afford him. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea.

Granted, the commute would be annoying, but his father would support him and likely be happy to see him out of McKinley. He would miss the Glee Club – well, he would miss certain members, not the internal politics and Schuester's assertion that only Rachel and Finn bore consideration – but the chance to be a featured vocalist for Vocal Adrenaline was certainly more enticing than standing in the back of New Directions and all but waving a rose with the other choral members.

The only sticking point was that he would have to leave Noah.

Of course, Noah was so busy carrying on an affair with Quinn, he doubted if his boyfriend would notice his absence.

He sighed at the reminder of the infidelity. He didn't know what to do about it, or even if he wanted to do anything. He hated being a doormat, being lied to and used; most of all, he hated that, despite everything, he still loved Noah. And if he were to confront him, how would he explain his knowledge of the affair?

Being a psychic sometimes really sucked.

Still, his friends – his _real_ ones – Santana, Brittany, Sam, Artie, and Tina – would be happy for him, even if he was placed in direct competition with them.

"_What is it, Westgate? Is Hummel okay?"_

"I'm fine, Liza," Kurt said softly, disregarding Justine's moue of distaste at his use of Capwell's first name.

Capwell released an irritated, though relieved, sigh. _"What's the problem?"_

Justine crossed her fingers and hoped Capwell would follow her lead and play ball. It was a risk, she knew, antagonizing Figgins the way she had, but if this school was half as miserable as she believed, it would be worth it to get Kurt out of it.

"Principal Figgins has some reservations about excusing Hummel for this morning's tardiness, as well as releasing him for this week's trial."

Liza said nothing at first, but the silence screamed with cool reproof. _"I assume you explained that Hummel's presence at the trial is required by law, as he is a material witness, and that if the esteemed principal does anything to interfere, he will be arrested and arraigned before the day is complete?"_

"Naturally."

"_Did you happen to mention the media coverage that I will arrange for said arrest and arraignment?"_

"I thought that would be better coming from you," Justine tinkled. "I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries, after all."

Liza and Kurt both snorted. Justine scowled. Figgins felt faint.

"_You live to overstep boundaries, Westgate,"_ Liza said, her voice bemused.

Justine rolled her eyes.

"_Figgins!"_ Capwell bellowed. _"If you in any way interfere with an official investigation overseen by my office, I will see you in jail before the day is out. If you in any way attempt to interfere with Mr. Hummel's position in my office, I will bring the full power of my position as District Attorney down on your head. If you in any way attempt retribution against Mr. Hummel, not only will I file criminal charges, I will recommend to him an excellent attorney who will pursue a civil suit on the grounds of persecution and harassment. Is anything I just said in any way unclear to you?"_

Figgins shook his head.

"A verbal answer would be helpful, Figgins," Justine snapped.

"No," Figgins said in a shaky voice. 'My apologies. I was unaware that Mr. Hummel's participation with your office was in an official capacity."

Capwell grunted and slammed down her receiver, severing the connection.

Figgins cleared his throat uneasily. "I believe you should get to class, Mr. Hummel. Detective, if there is nothing further, I have some reports to compile."

Kurt stood, looked at Justine, shrugged, and left the office. He felt no need to thank her, for she had involved herself; he hadn't asked. She would call him later, he was sure, to update him about the pending autopsies and the initial lab findings. Besides, he was still shaken from the morning's dream and then the scene at the Anderson house.

He left the administrative office, leaned against the outside wall, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath and released it, willing the bloody images to flee his mind. He had no idea about that note or what it meant, but he doubted it was anything good. Another deep breath and he forced himself to prepare mentally for his physics exam next period. For some indiscernible reason, his abilities were useless when it came to exams.

Stupid cosmic sense of fair play.

* * *

As lunch rolled around, Kurt sought refuge in the library. He knew after the scene this morning in the hall, Mercedes would be anxious to interrogate him. When had his life turned into a game of _Clue_? Further, what right did Mercedes have to ask him anything?

He shook his head. He wasn't going down that road again, though he was somewhat chagrined to discover that she still intimidated him. He didn't know why he had ever allowed it, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. Besides, he was sure that Santana would make his excuses, and she herself was far too intimidating for anyone to dare question her.

He still didn't know what had compelled him to tell her about the dreams. Perhaps he had done so out of loneliness, tired of feeling so isolated, not only from his peers, but from everyone. Though his father did the best he could to help, his fear of what his son could do, of the things he saw, overshadowed the concern. Kurt spent most of his time reassuring his father rather than being reassured himself.

Santana Lopez wasn't what anyone would call a comforting shoulder, but for some unfathomable reason, he had confided in her. Her response still surprised him. She had asked a few basic questions, but for the most part was content to leave him be. He had appreciated that. He just hadn't understod why she had been so accepting. Later she explained that while she didn't subscribe to the dogma, her family was deeply Catholic. Superstition and faith in all things possible were deeply ingrained into her genetic sequence.

Her friendship was one of the few bright spots in his life. It was more equitable and dependable than any he had ever experienced. It was mature. She didn't make demands on his time, but was always there when he needed her, something which he hoped he'd managed to reciprocate. He had listened to her surprising babble about her relationship with Brittany and helped her reach some conclusions, which had led to them being stronger than ever. He was so happy for them. They appeared to be the real thing, a love so true and solid, songs would be written about it.

He and Santana enjoyed an easy relationship, much to the shock and consternation of the majority of their friends. However, the fact that she had his father wrapped around her finger and that he simply adored her, in spite of, or perhaps because of her abrasive personality, lent Kurt credence that he had chosen wisely a new best friend.

He had also come to appreciate how protective she was of him. It wasn't the same kind of protectiveness that she had for Brittany; she didn't feel the need to defend him, but she was always just behind him, supporting him and making her presence known to any who might give him grief. Karofsky and his minions had all but abandoned their crusade against him, and he was sure that was due in no small part to Santana.

Sometimes her protectiveness was annoying, but never stifling. The one bone of contention between them was his relationship with Noah. It wasn't that Santana was jealous, because she had only ever used Noah for sex; there were no real feelings involved. She wasn't one of the many to insist that Noah wasn't gay or was just using Kurt for sex. In fact, she was one of the few who knew he and Noah had done nothing more than kiss. He had always known that Noah wasn't gay; that he was, at most, bisexual. He was fairly certain that he was most likely the only boy in whom Noah had ever been interested. He took no joy in that fact, but neither did it undermine their relationship. He figured Noah just liked whom he liked and didn't really care about any stigma associated with it.

No, Santana's problem was that she didn't believe Noah was good enough for him, and given that she had been sleeping with Noah off and on for almost two years, she argued, she would be the one to know. They quarreled over it often. Once, his father had overheard them and was so relieved that he wasn't the only one to think Noah a poor boyfriend, he had all but named Santana Lopez his Lord and personal Savior. Santana had been entirely too smug about the whole thing.

For the most part, Kurt was content to ignore the misgivings of Santana and his father. The problem was exacerbated, however, when Brittany came down resolutely on their side, declaring her disdain for Puck in a startlingly clear monologue devoid of her trademark vagueness.

It was, for some reason, much more difficult to lay her warnings aside, especially because she had stated her belief that Noah was, and always would be, in love with Quinn. It was something he had long suspected but wanted to deny. While Brittany didn't believe he was a replacement for Quinn, and that Noah sincerely cared about him, if Quinn ever decided she wanted him back, he would go.

He had kind of hated Brittany for that, even though he loved and admired that she had the guts to say to his face what so many had said behind his back. Noah _did_ care about him, he knew. Noah just didn't love him. Kurt was mostly okay with that. He'd never thought he'd even have a boyfriend in high school, let alone one as handsome as Noah Puckerman.

And Noah had been very good to him. Noah just wasn't good _for_ him.

Kurt shrugged off that thought.

It was curious to be friends with people to whom you did not feel indebted, who did not make you feel that their friendship was conditional. Not that Tina or Artie had ever made him feel that way, but he had always been so afraid to disagree with them or anger them in any way, lest they decide they were better off without him. When he had realized that, he had also realized that he had not been a very good friend to them, hadn't trusted that their friendship was real. He had mostly corrected that, and it had never been an issue between he and Santana, or with Brittany. Although it was fairly impossible to have issues with Brittany. She was perhaps the most genuine person he had ever known and he simply loved that about her.

He wiped the grin off his face and glanced through his notes for his French presentation that afternoon. The physics exam had gone as well as could be expected, considering he hadn't really studied for it. However, it was one of the subjects on which he had a fundamental grasp, so much study wasn't required. He had winged it and, while it certainly wouldn't be his best result, he was sure that he had scored a low A.

He startled when his phone chimed, indicating an incoming text message from Santana. Frowning, he withdrew his phone from his messenger bag and looked at it.

_Tweedledee and Tweedledum are fighting over you in the caf. This is looking pretty bad, fairy, but it's all kinds of entertaining for me_.

His initial reaction was to roll his eyes, but then the meat of her message sunk in. He abruptly stood, threw all of his paraphernalia into his bag, and ran out of the library.

* * *

Kurt seethed as he stormed through the hallways, the underclassmen all but diving out of his way.

Stupid Puck.

He noticed he always reverted to the nickname whenever he was angry at Noah.

Dumb Finn.

Kurt didn't need a big brother to ride to his rescue. Where was all of Finn's concern for him when Karofsky had been stalking him for months? Never had he hated his abilities so much as when he had peeked into Karofsky's head and borne witness to the vile things the big sweaty oaf wanted to do to him.

He shuddered with revulsion.

He didn't understand why Finn was so possessive of him, especially given all that unpleasantness last year, but after Finn had offered a halfhearted apology for that scene in the basement, after their parents had grown even closer, Finn had decided that he needed to protect him from everything which didn't matter. Finn was always interfering when it wasn't required, and nothing he did in Kurt's defense amounted to anything of any real import. It was as though Finn were just going through the motions to prove to himself that he was not a bad person.

Kurt didn't think Finn _was_ a bad person, only that Finn relied too much on what other people thought of him. Kurt could understand that, as he too had fallen prey to that trap more than once, but he had no interest in being Finn Hudson's community service project. For the most part, he had been content to ignore Finn's attempts at help, but after he had begun dating Noah, Finn had become nearly apoplectic with rage.

Egged on by an overly concerned Rachel, Finn took every opportunity to disparage Noah in Kurt's eyes. Even though he knew he was being poorly manipulated, Kurt was unable to stop himself from reacting, defending Noah at every turn, and thus widening the emotional distance between himself and Finn. He knew that Finn's worry was rooted in very real fear of what Noah could do, but he deplored that Finn thought him so weak and naïve. He knew what Noah was and what he wasn't, and as their relationship went on, he had come to understand that Noah wasn't intentionally lying to him; Kurt was just a casualty in Noah's web of lies which insisted he wasn't still in love with Quinn.

Beth had changed him more than Noah was ever willing to admit, and while he had initially wanted to be with Quinn to offer a somewhat stable life for their daughter, the further Quinn's pregnancy advanced, the more deeply Noah had fallen in love with her. She had ultimately rejected him, not because she didn't love him, but because she was unable to deal with her feelings regarding Beth, so she sought to deny everything that had led to the conception. Noah had eventually accepted her claims that she wasn't interested in him and had attempted to move on.

He still wasn't sure why Noah had moved on to _him_. It wasn't as though they had ever been friends; they had barely been able to tolerate each other, and only because Schuester had mandated it. So when Noah had begun pursuing him over the summer, Kurt had been instantly suspicious. But Noah had worn him down with sincere apologies for his past behavior. Even if he wasn't psychic, Kurt would have sensed the true regret Noah felt for his past treatment of him.

Still, it had been one thing to forgive Noah; it was something altogether different to accept that Noah had feelings for him. Nevertheless, he believed those feelings to be real. It was just that, at the time, neither one of them had been able to qualify said feelings. So they sought to explore them together.

Each had agreed to take things slow. Kurt wasn't ready for sex and Noah had finally accepted that sex led to consequences he wasn't mature enough to understand or face. That left them with a lot of time to talk to one another, to get to know each other, and both had slowly come to understand that they truly _liked_ one another. They were actual friends. And Kurt had begun to fall for Noah in turn.

Noah had never pressured him for sex and it had set alarms off within Kurt. He had castigated himself for ignoring the growth Noah had experienced, for judging him on his past behavior, but at the same time, he knew Noah was used to sex on a regular basis. He had started to believe that Noah was unconsciously using him in an attempt to be someone he wasn't; to ensure, even if only to himself, that he had changed. But there had been no denying Noah's excitement when they made out. If nothing else, that proved to Kurt that Noah _did_ want him.

Then he began to worry that while Noah wanted him, he didn't necessarily want _him_, that perhaps Noah was more interested in the act than in the person with whom he shared it. But as time went on, Noah had proven what a good boyfriend he could be if given the chance. He was patient, kind, and gentle. He had learned Kurt's birthday, his father's birthday, his parents' anniversary, and the anniversary of his mother's death. He learned what foods Kurt liked and those he abhorred. He watched whatever Kurt wanted and opened his mind to the types of music Kurt liked. He hadn't done those things to placate Kurt, but because he was honestly interested. In turn, Kurt had learned to appreciate some of Noah's tastes.

The only quibble they had was Kurt's job, why and to where he disappeared on a regular basis, why Kurt couldn't talk about the things he did, and why Kurt seemed to know more than he should about certain things. He had tried to assure Noah that he wasn't deliberately excluding him, but that there were things he simply wasn't able to discuss freely. Noah had tried to understand, but ultimately his resentment for the job which took so much of Kurt's time away from him had festered. Yet they had managed to lay it aside and ignore it, otherwise content with their relationship.

When school was set to resume, Kurt had been prepared to call an end to whatever it was they had, knowing the abuse Noah would suffer. But Noah hadn't wanted to keep him a secret and was more than proud to strut down the hallway with Kurt on his arm, so he knew Noah had genuine feelings for him. There was care and concern and perhaps even some kind of platonic love. They both had known that they probably wouldn't last, but were positive that they would at least come out of their relationship as very close friends.

That had all changed when Finn, whom Kurt had avoided most of the summer, had discovered they were together. The explosion was profound. Finn had screamed alternately at him and at Noah, trying to undermine them and their belief in each other at every opportunity. He had taken to stalking them on their dates. He had used their parents' relationship to worm his way into the Hummel house as often as possible, particularly on those days when Noah would be coming to pick Kurt up for a date. And then Finn had gotten Rachel in on the act, convincing her that evil Noah was out to seduce and ruin poor, pathetic Kurt.

Rachel, who never met a mission she didn't like, embraced Finn's fanaticism wholeheartedly, often lecturing Kurt prior to glee club rehearsals and leaving stockpiles of helpful pamphlets purloined from Miss Pillsbury in his locker. Kurt had been fine with letting Santana and Tina run interference for him with Rachel, while Brittany and Artie tackled Finn. Mercedes, having grown even closer to Quinn over the summer, now saw Kurt as the person who had taken Noah from her friend, even though it had been Quinn who had dumped Noah. Mercedes believed that if not for Kurt, Noah and Quinn would reunite and enjoy some storybook romance for the ages. Though she had never come out publicly and said so, Kurt knew Mercedes well enough to know her feelings on the matter. In fact, Noah had been the one topic they avoided when they decided they were better off not being friends.

Noah had fretted that Kurt would fall for Finn's antics, but Kurt had reassured him that had never been a possibility. Noah had insisted that Finn was jealous and wanted Kurt for himself, which Kurt had found laughable until Santana, in rare agreement with Noah, concurred, arguing that while Finn may not have wanted him for himself, he also didn't want anyone else to have him. She believed that Finn missed the attention Kurt used to pay him and wanted it back. Kurt had vowed that would never happen, stating that the Finn for whom he had fallen had never existed, but had been merely a figment of his own imagination. He had projected onto Finn all of the qualities he wanted in a boyfriend, blinding himself to the person Finn truly was.

Things had settled down after a couple of weeks, although Finn and Rachel didn't abandon their machinations. Regardless, he and Noah were even stronger than they had been.

Until Sam.

When he met Sam, Kurt had felt an instant connection, one which was reciprocated. It was like coming home for Kurt, an utterly alien feeling. All he knew was that he felt more himself with Sam than he had with any other boy, with any other _person_, like he was completely understood and accepted for who and what he was, and there was no need to limit himself or alter his behavior to make someone else feel comfortable. In fact, Kurt had felt Sam was the one person other than Santana in whom he could have confided his secret. He hadn't, so as not to place any burden on Sam, but in his heart he knew it was significant that he could have trusted Sam with something so momentous and not Noah.

The problem, if it could be called such, was that everything with Sam was so _easy_. He knew there was nothing he could not tell Sam. He enjoyed being as free as Sam allowed him to be. Sam welcomed casual affection and was always quick with a hug or a shoulder bump. Noah welcomed it too, but he also always looked around, daring anyone to say anything, as if willingly showing Kurt affection proved something to all of their naysayers.

He and Sam had little in common, but what they did share only further cemented their connection. The more they talked, the more they discovered they held the same views on many important subjects. The more time they spent together, the deeper their friendship became. They never got enough of each other, never became tired of the other, never needed to pull back in order to reclaim personal space.

But it wasn't sexual. Kurt had no problem admitting to himself and to others that he thought Sam was beautiful, and Sam often said the same, but there was no attraction between them.

Noah refused to accept that, insisting that Sam was trying to steal Kurt away. Kurt had countered that such an act simply wasn't possible; he would have to go willingly, and had no interest in doing so. The more time he spent with Sam, the angrier Noah became. That anger gave way to possessiveness, though it wasn't as cloying as what Kurt was experiencing with Finn.

And Finn was another problem. He seized upon Kurt's friendship with Sam and offered it up as some kind of proof that Noah was all wrong for him. The more he pushed Sam at Kurt, the angrier Kurt, Sam, and Noah all became. Sam had initially joined New Directions at Finn's behest, but after his friendship with Kurt had taken off and he had seen how ridiculous Finn was about Kurt, Sam backed off. He thought Finn was bonkers and that Rachel was enabling him.

Santana had latched on to Sam almost immediately, as though she were drafting him in a war, and filled him in on all of the backstory of the previous year. As nonjudgmental as Sam was, he found himself quickly disliking Finn, Mercedes, Quinn, and Rachel, which left him firmly in the camp of Kurt, Santana, Artie, Tina, and Brittany. He hadn't meant to draw a line in the sand, and he didn't give much credence to gossip, but after witnessing firsthand Finn and Rachel's wheelbarrow full of crazy, he didn't want to associate them any more than what was absolutely required. He was also very friendly with Mike, who generally removed himself from the drama of glee club.

Sam had almost no contact with Puck and desperately endeavored not to come between he and Kurt. That Sam offered no opinion on Noah worried Kurt. That Sam refused to take Noah's bait angered Noah all the more. It was as though Noah was desperately trying to insert Sam between himself and Kurt, and was, for some reason, furious that it wasn't working. It utterly baffled Sam, and Kurt was similarly confused.

That was when Kurt did something he knew he should have never done, something he had vowed never to do to his friends. The shame of it still lingered.

He had looked into Noah's head.

Mindreading was hit-or-miss with him. He couldn't do it on command, and most of the information he did glean was received when he wasn't trying; often, that information was useless. He supposed it was a passive ability. He didn't know how to cultivate it and he was certain he didn't want to learn. It was a gross invasion of privacy; he could only imagine how we would feel were someone to do that to him.

Also, it was more trouble than it was worth. When he attempted it purposefully, it required almost total concentration and left him feeling drained. There were also some people who were, for whatever reason, immune. He didn't know if that was because of some innate talent those people had, or if he just sucked at trying to read them. From what he had been able to deduce, some people just had better control over their thoughts than others. Said people also had a tight rein on their emotions, and it seemed to provide a natural defense to his invasive ability. He couldn't read Santana or Mike, but Rachel and Schue broadcasted fairly loudly. He often picked up from them things he would rather not know.

That wasn't always the case; there were some people, like Finn, who were so overly emotional that they should have broadcasted almost belligerently, but he couldn't read Finn either. Brittany's mind was so chaotic that the stray thoughts he picked up left him with migraines. He had never tried to read Sam or Mercedes because he knew them well enough to know what they were thinking without a supernatural assist.

And then there were those people who _believed_ they had total control over themselves that Kurt was surprised he could get anything from them at all; people like Sylvester, Karofsky, and Noah. But he _could_ read them, which was why he knew when it was most important to avoid Karofsky completely. It was how he had learned enough about Sue to blackmail her into letting him step down as Head Cheerio. And it was how he had discovered that Noah was sleeping with Quinn.

He only had been surprised that he wasn't more surprised. It had also been startling how little he felt about the whole thing. He didn't feel angry or betrayed; he just felt sad. He didn't know why he hadn't broken up with Noah, except that perhaps both of them needed to believe the lie that they were enough for each other. He loved Noah and knew Noah loved him; it was just that neither of them could admit they weren't in love with each other. He knew they both _wanted_ to be, it just hadn't happened.

* * *

Kurt threw himself through the cafeteria doors and realized in that moment that they wouldn't be able to ignore the truth for much longer.

He sighed and shook his head as he saw Finn and Noah pushing at each other. Well, it was more accurate to say that Finn was accosting Noah, who was simply defending himself. It wouldn't be long before they came to blows.

Rachel was, of course, at Finn's side, loudly castigating Finn for his penchant for physical violence, all the while encouraging him to defend Kurt's honor. Puck stood alone, screaming at both of them that he loved Kurt and wasn't about to let their idiocy affect his relationship. Mercedes sat at the table, consoling a tearful Quinn, while Mike, Artie, and Tina watched all of them with wide eyes.

Santana, Sam, and Brittany stood together, just off to the side of Finn, Rachel, and Noah, ready to interfere if things got too far out of hand. Kurt didn't know what the hell they were waiting for, but he supposed he should be grateful they were bothering at all. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sue and Schue making their way into the fray and knew he needed to cut them off at the pass. He had to stop this before it got any worse.

And then it did.

"You've made Kurt into your whore!" Finn bellowed.

Noah was so surprised that he dropped his arms at his sides and stared stupidly at Finn, who was breathing heavily though his mouth as his face turned purple. Rachel had gasped sharply at Finn's tirade and began babbling about his choice of vocabulary. Tina had stood and Artie wheeled himself away from the table, looking at though he were pondering how hard he'd have to roll into Finn to knock him down and into the next table. Sam's fists curled reflexively as he took a step forward.

But of course it was Santana who lost her nut. She yanked off her earrings and shoved them into Brittany's hand.

"Hold my shit," she growled.

Kurt's eyes widened and he put on a burst of speed, all but flying across the room. He wasn't scared for Santana, but for Finn and Noah. Also, Santana being suspended wasn't good for him.

He managed to wedge himself between Finn and Noah, pushing them apart, his back to Noah and slightly turned to ward off Santana.

"That's _enough_," he viciously spat.

"Did you hear what he said?" Noah demanded.

"I heard," Kurt said in a low voice. He wasn't about to discuss his sexual habits, or lack thereof, in an open forum. "And he _will_ apologize."

"Why are you mad at me?" Finn howled. "Why don't you get that I'm trying to protect you, Kurt? He'll ruin you, just like he ruined Quinn."

The girl in question released an indignant squawk, which went ignored, except by Mercedes, who cooed at her.

"You deserve so much better!" Finn expounded, in what Kurt assumed was a bid for passionate entreaty.

Noah snorted. "Like who, Hudson? _You_?"

Finn spluttered. "That's not what I meant at all!"

Noah scowled. "Bullshit. You can't stand that he's gotten over you. Ever since he has, you've become obsessed with him. Why do you give a shit who he dates?"

"You don't date anyone, Puck," Finn retorted, glowering. "You just fuck them and leave them."

"You son of a bitch," Noah snarled.

"Leave my mom out of this! She was good to you. How many meals did she feed you? How many times did you sleep at my house? How often did my mom take care of you because yours was too _drunk_ to do it?"

"You piece of shit!"

"Stop it, both of you!" Kurt screamed.

"Finn! Desist this deplorable behavior immediately!" Rachel scolded.

"Listen to your woman, Hudson," Noah laughed. "She's the only one on your side."

"You don't even know what you're talking about!" Finn roared.

Noah laughed harder. "No? Look around, Hudson. Other than the Mouth, you're completely alone. Quinn didn't want you; she wanted me. Kurt doesn't want you; he wants me. Lopez, Evans, and Brittany are on our side."

"I'm on _Kurt's_ side," Sam said evenly.

"Ditto," Santana said, nodding.

Noah shrugged. "Kurt's side _is_ my side."

"No," Brittany said quietly, "not at all."

Noah gave her a puzzled look, which caused him to miss Finn's flying fist.

"Don't you dare!" Kurt screeched, shoving Noah out of the way and thus forcing himself to take the full brunt of the impact.

As Kurt was sent sprawling to the floor, the entire cafeteria gasped. Mercedes and Quinn both stood, Mercedes screaming incoherently at Finn. Sam immediately dropped to his knees and made his way to Kurt's side, placing the other boy's head in his lap, glaring up at Finn. Artie, Tina, and Mike were soon with them.

Rachel gazed down at Kurt, her eyes filled with tears as a shaky hand covered her mouth. She quickly scooted away from Finn.

Noah stared dazedly at Kurt, seemingly unable to make the connection between Finn's fist and Kurt being on the floor. When his synapses fired, he scrambled to his feet and rushed Finn, an unholy bellow erupting from his mouth. He was beaten to the punch by Santana, who had taken a flying leap and attached herself to Finn's back, screaming a litany of Spanish curse words into his ear as the nails of one hand raked down his face and the nails of the other dug into his neck.

Soon she was surrounded by all of the Cheerios who were, unsurprisingly, cheering her on. Karofsky loomed on the periphery, looking ready to pummel Finn.

Sylvester and Schuester fought their way through the crowd, the former bodily lifting Santana off of Finn. Kurt looked up to see Miss Pillsbury kneeling before him, trying to whisper soothing words which were lost in the melee.

Puck and Santana were still screaming at Finn, Schuester was screaming at all of them, Quinn and Mercedes were crying, Artie and Tina were whispering to themselves, and Mike was glaring hatefully at both Puck and Finn.

Kurt pulled himself into a sitting position and looked up at Finn, the others falling silent.

"You hit me," he whispered, voice filled with disbelief.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Finn blubbered. "I didn't mean it! I would never, ever hurt you."

"All of you've done is hurt him," said an angry Brittany. Though she was whispering, her voice carried across the room. "Everything bad you've said about Puck, you've done too. _You_ wrote mean messages on Kurt's locker. _You_ helped throw him in the dumpster all those times. _You_ helped nail the pretty patio furniture to his roof. _You_ threw pee balloons at him."

She shook her head. "I don't understand why you deserve to be forgiven for all those things but Puck doesn't. You're no better than him. You're not any better than the rest of us, but you think you are. Does Uncle Burt even know all the things you've done to Kurt?"

Finn hung his head.

"You're a horrible person," she concluded, before turning to leave.

"Now he's upset Brittany!" Santana yelled. "He must be _destroyed_!"

"Lopez, calm down!" Sue snapped.

"Not until I taste his ___blood_!"

Finn cowered.

"At least Puck never called Kurt a fag," Sam spat, staring hatefully at Finn and wanting to deflect as much attention from Santana as he could, before she bit off more than she could chew.

Santana smirked, glad that the secret was out and she hadn't needed to lift a finger.

Brittany and Quinn gasped.

"What?" Rachel whispered, voice filled with betrayal.

Puck stared at Sam, then at Finn, and finally at Kurt, who looked so ashamed it broke his heart. He whirled to face Finn. "You _bastard_!"

Mercedes was dumbly shaking her head. She hadn't known, but she should've. She had seen the signs that something was deeply wrong between Kurt and Finn, but Kurt had never told her. And after the way she had treated him, she understood well why he had not.

"Finn?" Schuester prompted.

Finn said nothing, just stared at the floor.

Rachel shot a sorrowful look at Kurt, obviously wanting to go to his aid but knowing she wouldn't be welcomed, for which she couldn't blame him, before looking at Finn once more and abruptly fleeing the room.

"Rach," Finn halfheartedly protested.

"I can't keep Figgins out of this," Sue whispered to Santana, who shrugged.

"Don't care."

"Alabaster?" she prompted, silently cursing Hudson for possibly driving her little homo further into the arms of Carmel. She had tried to get to him several times throughout the day, but was always thwarted, almost as if he was trying to avoid her. The nerve!

"My father will not be informed of this," Kurt ordered.

Sue swiftly nodded, but Schuester chose that moment to stick his greasy mop into the mix.

"Kurt, I really think…"

"I didn't ask."

Sue suppressed the snort, but couldn't keep the triumphant grin from her face.

Kurt got to his feet with the help of Sam.

"Kurt?" Finn hesitantly began. "I'm really, really sorry."

Kurt heaved a sigh. "I know, Finn," he said dully. "You always are."

Those words hit Finn harder than the combined tirades of Puck, Santana, Schue, and Brittany, and he fell silent.

"Babe?" Puck whispered.

"Not now, Puck."

Puck flinched at the nickname, knowing he was in deep shit. Once again, he had fallen into Finn's trap. How many times had Kurt told him not to engage Finn, just to walk away before it could even begin? But no, he had reacted rather than think, and Kurt had paid the price. He would never forgive himself. It was bad enough he had been cheating on his Duchess, but to have Kurt physically harmed because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut? There was no excuse.

"Would you please help me clean up?" Kurt quietly asked Sam.

"Of course," Sam whispered, wrapping his arm around Kurt's shoulder and leading him away, nodding at Santana.

Puck gritted his teeth. He had driven the Duchess right into the waiting arms of Evans. He knew he had no right to be jealous, to be upset, not after he had been carrying on with Quinn, but it still stung. What hurt the most was that he knew Sam was the better choice, that Sam would treat Kurt the way he deserved. The way Puck _wanted_ to treat Kurt, but for some reason had been unable. Kurt had given him every chance, both to be a good boyfriend and to come clean about Quinn. It killed him that he had always known that Kurt would have been understanding about Quinn, would have let him go and wished them the best.

But no. He had lied. He had cheated. He had done the very thing of which he had accused Finn: he didn't love Kurt the way Kurt wanted, the way _he_ wanted, but he didn't want anyone else to have Kurt either. He had tried to hang on to Kurt so that he wouldn't have to feel the pain of watching his Duchess with another boy.

He wanted to get the hell out of there so that he could barf in private, but he knew Sylvester and Schue wouldn't let him go anywhere, even though he hadn't thrown a single punch. So he'd suck it up and deal with it, crucify Finn like he deserved, and spin the truth to make sure the consequences to Santana were virtually nil.

He knew he was going to lose Kurt, and for that he only had himself to blame, but he would make damn sure that Finn left his Duchess alone once and for all.

And if Evans won the heart of the Duchess, well, maybe then Kurt could finally be happy.

* * *

**End Notes**:

This story roughly takes place during Season Two of Glee, but this is only a marker. You can assume most of the canonical events have occurred in their proper order, though the entire storyline surrounding "Never Been Kissed" has been omitted, as has Dalton Academy. Thus, there is no Blaine. Sorry, Klaine fans (not really)! The canon marker for Medium is Season Six.

This story also contains original characters, which I don't often create, so I hope they're serviceable. I realize this particular story is very niche and doubt it will be widely read, but I hope the few who do will enjoy it.


	5. We Are the Music Makers

"_It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live_." ~ JK Rowling, _ Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_

* * *

Sam carefully positioned Kurt against the wall of the men's room, concerned when the other boy didn't utter a remark about germs or hygiene. Considering who Kurt was, Sam knew this was highly unusual, so he took a closer look. Kurt looked dazed and slightly confused, and Sam worried the other boy might have had a concussion. Finn hadn't been holding back any punches. Literally.

For his part, Kurt was unable to reconcile the fact that Finn had actually struck him. There were times over the past year in which Kurt had been sure Finn had wanted to hit him, and perhaps it had been warranted, but he had somehow managed to restrain himself. Granted, the punch had been an accident, Finn had been aiming for Noah, but that did little to dispel the fear and anxiety he now held for Finn.

"I should have stopped this," Sam angrily hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," Kurt replied. "It was an accident, and certainly in no way was it your fault."

"I should have pulled you out of the line of fire before it even got to that point," Sam countered. "I saw how dangerous the situation was becoming."

"I would have punched you had you tried."

One corner of Sam's mouth pulled up. "Yeah, you probably would have. I bet you've got quite a right hook."

Kurt sniffed. "Naturally." He raised a brow. "I'm Burt Hummel's son."

Sam's face lost any trace of mirth and he shuddered. "Point taken."

Kurt smirked with satisfaction, then winced and released a low moan of pain.

"My poor baby," Sam murmured, gently stroking the apple of Kurt's cheek.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and then said moment passed, as all moments do. Sam was the first to look away.

"Let's clean up your face as much as we can." He promptly began rummaging through Kurt's bag, knowing exactly which unguents and remedies Kurt would require to look his absolute best.

"Sam?" Kurt whispered, unsurprised when Sam staunchly ignored him.

What the hell had just happened?

Did Sam…?

No. He absolutely could not deal with _that_ at the moment. He was far too busy trying to figure out a decent explanation for his father as to why and how Finn had hit him. The immediate secondary worry was what to do about Noah.

Things obviously couldn't continue in the manner they had been. It had been one matter when Finn was merely trying to keep them apart, but to resort to physical violence? That was simply unacceptable.

"How did their fight start?" Kurt asked.

Sam sighed, tightening his grip on the cotton washcloth he had fished out of Kurt's messenger bag. "We were all talking about our plans for this weekend. Santana mentioned that you and she were going shopping, and Puck started complaining that he wanted to take you out for dinner and a movie, which was much more important than anything you could possibly be doing with her."

"Great," Kurt muttered.

Sam nodded. "And then Finn chimed in that maybe you were finally getting your priorities in order and were planning on dumping Puck, because even Santana would be a better choice for you than him."

Kurt frowned. "He actually said that? Was he serious?"

"Very," Sam said with finality. "Rachel interrupted the conversation and declared that if you were ever going to date a woman, it would have been Mercedes. Brittany and Santana had a lot to say about that, as you can imagine. Mercedes held her tongue, so Quinn spoke for her."

Kurt gnashed his teeth. "Don't those people have anything better to do than discuss my love life?"

Sam snorted. "Apparently not, because then Finn started telling everyone that if it wasn't for Puck, you and I would be dating, as we should have been for the past two months." He shook his head. "Well, Finn finally hit upon a topic with which Santana agreed, and she began telling Puck everything she thought was wrong with him, with Brittany just adding fuel to the fire. Mercedes and Quinn got in a few comments in support of him, and then Tina started yelling at all of them about how they were self-righteous, egotistical assholes. Mike backed her up."

He exhaled. "Artie then took up the cause by declaring that if they didn't have the guts to say to your face what they were saying behind your back, they should just shut the hell up. He told Rachel that if you were going to date a girl, it would be Brittany, and that your relationship with Puck wasn't anyone's business. He told Finn that it was suspicious how invested he is in your personal life, which I think set off alarms in Puck's head, and then Artie told Rachel that maybe she should have her dads talk to Finn about alternative sexualities and how to tell if you have one."

Kurt closed his eyes. "I love Artie, I really do, but what was he thinking?"

"That's when Puck and Finn stood up and started screaming at each other. Santana egged them on, according to her shifting moods," Sam finished. "And here we are."

Kurt sighed. "And to think there was a time when all I wanted was friends."

Sam smiled, but it was weak.

"How did I miss this?" Kurt wondered. It was a non-sequitur to the conversation at hand, yet Sam had no problem catching it.

"I didn't want you to see it," he replied. "I didn't want to be yet another problem you have to deal with."

"You could never be a problem, Sam," Kurt softly countered. "You're my best friend. You and Santana are the best friends I've ever had. But, I have to admit, I'm surprised."

"So was I," Sam admitted. "I didn't see it coming."

Kurt thought about the unintentional irony of that statement. Suddenly he wanted nothing more in the world than to tell Sam about the dreams, about his abilities. He knew Sam would understand and never judge him, nor would he suffocate him. He trusted Sam completely. He trusted Noah too, despite his affair with Quinn, but had the sense that Noah, like Mercedes, would try to manage him if he knew about the dreams. Santana just accepted them as part of who he was, as would Sam. He wondered why he never had told Sam. It seemed stupid that he hadn't.

He took Sam's face in his hands. "I love you so much, Sam. I honestly don't know what I would do without you. If we ever tried…and it didn't work…I don't think I'd survive it. I can't lose you."

Sam pressed his forehead against Kurt's own. "I know. I feel the same way, and that's why I didn't say anything. This is new for me, too, and I don't know what to say or do about it, so I wanted to keep it to myself." He bit his lip. "Most of the time, I do okay. I know you love Puck, and I would never try to get in the middle of that. But today, when I saw Finn punch you," he closed his eyes, "I wanted to kill him, Kurt. Watching you get hurt…something broke inside me." He pulled away. "I'm sorry."

"Never apologize for what you feel," Kurt snapped. "But I can't, Sam," he said more quietly.

Sam smiled, and this time it wasn't pained. "I know. I understand that and I don't expect anything from you. Just…just don't shut me out, okay? Now that you know, don't shut me out."

"Never," Kurt swore. "Sam, other than my parents, you're the first person I've ever told that I loved them."

Sam blinked. "Not Puck? Santana?"

Kurt waved a dismissive hand. "Santana knows. We don't need to say it, and we would never feel comfortable doing so. As for Noah, I love him, yes, and he loves me, but it's something we don't discuss. You're the only person with whom I've ever felt comfortable enough to say it."

"Will you say it now?" Sam asked after a long moment.

"I love you, Sam."

Sam nodded, ducking his head. "Just not the way I want. That's okay. It really is. I'll deal."

"You didn't want me to push you away," Kurt said, swallowing heavily, "but are you going to push me away now?"

Sam shook his head, still unable to meet Kurt's eyes. "No. Even if I wanted to, and I don't, I never could. You're…you're part of me now, Kurt. I don't want a life without you in it, whatever form that takes."

Kurt released a long, loud breath. "Good, because I'm about to take horrible advantage of our friendship."

Sam gave him a puzzled look.

"Will you hold me?" Kurt asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Just for a little while?"

So Sam did.

* * *

Santana kicked back in a chair in Figgins' office, feeling damn fine. Finn had at last shown his true dumbass colors, and while she was pissed that Kurt was hurt in the process – and she _would_ be exacting recompense for that – she had high hopes that Kurt would be so disgusted with both Finn _and_ Puck that he would cut them both out of his life. Then he could be with Sam, like she knew he was meant to be.

Puck was worried. He should've just walked away when Finn had started ranting. He didn't know why he had allowed the idiot's words to affect him so badly. Well, okay, he did. As much of an asshole as Finn was, he was right that Kurt deserved better than a colossal fuckup like Noah Puckerman. But, of course, he hadn't listened to his brain and had instead replied with threats and intimidation, both of which had failed and resulted in Kurt, the only innocent one in all of this mess, being hurt. He'd never forgive himself for that. And now there was a good chance he would be sent back to juvie, all because he still hadn't learned how to think before he acted.

Finn was terrified. He was sure to end up in a shallow grave by the end of the day, courtesy of one Burt Hummel. That is, if his own mother didn't murder him first. That didn't even take into account the things he was sure Santana, Puck, Sam, Artie, Tina, and Mike wanted to do to him. And last, but certainly not least, there was the fact that he was pretty much positive his relationship with Rachel was now over. Even though Kurt had forgiven him for that night in the basement, he doubted that Rachel would. He didn't blame her, either.

"This kind of behavior is unacceptable," Figgins said harshly, "and while I am highly disappointed in the three of you, I cannot say that I am surprised. You're nothing but thugs."

Santana raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Did you just insult one of my Cheerios?" Sue howled.

Figgins ignored them. "Each of you is suspended for the rest of the week. Mr. Puckerman, I will be contacting your probation officer and advising him of these developments."

Santana crossed her arms over her chest, blew a lock of hair from her face, and snorted. "And while you're doing that, I'll be contacting my attorney," she said, smirking. "Who is, by the way, my father."

"On what grounds?" Figgins demanded.

"That is the question, isn't it?" she cooed, her dark eyes flashing. "On what _grounds_ are you involving Puck's probation officer? He did nothing wrong. He didn't throw the first punch." She cocked her head. "In fact, he threw no punches at all. He never became violent, despite being provoked, not even in defense of himself and his boyfriend. That was all Hudson." She grinned. "And me, of course."

Puck shot her a look of such heartfelt gratitude that she almost experienced an emotion. Then she remembered that he was a complete asshole and the feeling left her.

"I think you'd be better served, Principal Figgins," she continued, "by considering the ramifications of the assault on Kurt Hummel, because, and make no mistake here, that's exactly what it was. Hudson punched him in the middle of a crowded cafeteria, just brimming with any number of witnesses who would happily testify as to what they saw. Hudson, unprovoked, attacked a defenseless student who is several inches shorter and many pounds lighter than him."

"I didn't mean to hurt Kurt! I would _never_ hurt him!" Finn wailed. "I was aiming for you!" he howled at Puck.

"Is that what happened?" Santana asked lightly, her eyes brimming with innocence as she stared up at the ceiling. "I don't remember it that way."

"Me either," Puck said, smirking.

"I can't recall," Sue said blankly.

"Mr. Schue!" pleaded a panicked Finn.

Will said nothing, still very disturbed by the scene in the cafeteria. He had never known Finn to be violent, but seeing the boy punch Kurt had enraged him. And then the revelation that Finn had called Kurt that…that _word_. He could even pinpoint when it must have happened. He remembered with vivid clarity the shift in their dynamic last year. He should have suspected something then, should have questioned them. But, as usual, he had stayed out of it.

"I do wonder what Uncle Burt will have to say about it all," Santana nonchalantly remarked. "Uncle Burt loves his son _very_ much, and I know you're well aware of that, Principal Figgins."

Figgins paled. The last thing he needed was Burt Hummel raising hell in his office. Again.

"And then there's Justine Westgate to consider," Santana finished, smiling slyly.

At this, Sue also smiled, baring most of her teeth. She had listened to Westgate's takedown of Figgins earlier that morning, the monitoring equipment for once functioning properly, and it had been almost orgasmic, scoring the cop a lot of points in Sue Sylvester's slam book.

Figgins swooned slightly.

"Who?" Finn asked.

Santana stared at him. "His partner?"

"I thought Puck was his partner," Finn said, frowning. "That's the proper term, right?"

Puck rolled his eyes. "His _work_ partner."

Finn blinked. "Kurt has a job? What, in a store or something?"

Santana blanked her face. She'd had no idea Kurt hadn't informed Finn of his extracurricular crime fighting, but she could understand why he wouldn't, and of course Finn was too clueless to have picked up on anything. Even if he had, it would have been easily explained away by Kurt or Burt. If Finn was this overprotective about Kurt's relationship with Puck, it would stand to reason that he would be completely ridiculous about a job that put Kurt in real, physical danger. Shit.

"The Duchess works with the D.A.," Puck snarled. "His partner is a cop."

Santana wanted to beat him to within an inch of her life. She settled for gauging his forearm with her talons.

"What?" asked a panicked Finn.

Puck finally realized the nature of the situation and winced. "Shit."

"Language!" Figgins admonished.

Sue stared at Santana, who obviously knew whatever the hell was going on with Alabaster and his little volunteer position. Santana glared back at her mutinously and Sue knew that, no matter what she threatened the girl with, Santana would give her no answers. She almost respected her for it.

"Why is Kurt working with the police?" Will wondered.

Sue then spun a lovely little tale which took up several minutes but ultimately revealed nothing. Finn, satisfied that Kurt was in no danger, let it go. Will knew there was far more to the story, but sensed he'd get no further information from Kurt, Sue, or Santana; for whatever reason, Puck appeared to be in the dark about what Kurt was really doing.

"Whatever," Santana huffed. "Can we get back to the point here? Namely me." She turned to face Figgins. "If you want to suspend me, fine, but I will fight it. If you take this to the Puckhole's probation officer, I'll make an end run around you to the school board. If Hudson's punishment isn't worse than mine, after he was the one who started this whole thing, I'll whine and cry about misogyny and racism to whatever media outlet I stumble across first."

Figgins curled a lip and glared at her.

She held his gaze placidly, smirking so lightly it almost could have gone unnoticed.

"Do not threaten me, young lady," Figgins warned.

"As you just threatened Puck?" she promptly asked. "You don't scare me, Principal Figgins. You know why? Money. As in, I've got a lot of it. I could care less about what shows up on my school record, as my police jacket is far more inflammatory. " She paused. "By the way, I wonder if anyone has bothered to make sure that Kurt is okay. He did, after all, receive a hard blow to the face, followed by one to the back of his head when he fell to the ground. He could have a concussion. He could require medical treatment."

She leaned forward and gave the man a feral grin. "He could sue the school."

Will blinked. Damn, she was good. One look at Sue told him she thought the same.

Figgins paled even further, picked up his phone, and asked the secretary to find Hummel and make sure he was escorted the nurse's office.

Santana noted with pleasure that her words once again lighted rage and worry in those present, smirked, leaned back against the chair, and began filing her nails.

* * *

Agnes Hamilton, the school secretary, had delegated the task of tracking down Kurt to Emma Pillsbury, who raced up and down the halls of McKinley in search of the boy, her worry growing with each passing second.

She had only the barest idea of what had transpired - namely, that Finn had punched Kurt during lunch - but she was worried about possibly serious injuries. Head wounds were nothing to dismiss out of hand. The thought of Natasha Richardson's fate circled about her mind.

Finally she spied him emerging from the boys' locker room, being carefully shepherded by Sam Evans.

She paused in her tracks and suppressed the desire to coo. Sam, like Kurt, was one of her favorite students, though neither had any idea they were held so high in her esteem. She was so glad that they had become friends after Sam had migrated from Tennessee. She always worried about the students finding their niche, and worried particularly about those who never did. Kurt had taken Sam under his wing early on, and now Sam was returning the favor. They really were such sweet boys, even though Kurt could be horribly evil when it suited.

"Kurt!" she squawked. "Are you all right?"

Kurt startled, turned to face her, and nodded, wincing with the effort and at the horrified look on her face. "Thank you, Ms. Pillsbury, I am. The bruising is unfortunate, but it could have been much worse."

She bit her lip. "Principal Figgins wants you escorted to the nurse's office."

Kurt exchanged a glance with Sam and frowned. "That won't be necessary, thank you. I've taken some aspirin, and the pain has already receded. I think I was more in shock than in actual physical distress."

She nodded worriedly. "Would you like to come lie down in my office for a while?"

Kurt was surprised. It wasn't like her to make such an offer, but he was more than happy to take her up on it. He had no desire to spend the next hour in the nurse's office, where he would be fussed over and stared at, not to mention easily found by those he wished to avoid.

"I'd appreciate that, yes," he replied.

Emma nodded and was already writing a pass for Sam to deliver to the teacher of his next class.

"I can stay with you," he whispered to Kurt.

Kurt shook his head. "I don't want you to fall behind. You're going to make honor roll this term if it kills you." He paused. "And if it does, it will still make a nice epitaph on your headstone."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You've recovered."

Kurt sniffed and turned away. "Go to class, Mr. Evans."

"Yes, sir!" Sam sharply replied, standing at attention and saluting him.

"That's the attitude I like to see," Kurt said, smiling.

"When have you not liked being in charge?"

Kurt raised a brow. "I don't know. It's never happened."

Emma watched this with fascination, quite aware of the innuendo behind the words. Interesting. And _adorable_.

She also saw the shadows gathered in Kurt's eyes and recognized that they hadn't been placed there by his altercation with Finn. Oh, dear. He'd had a vision, she was sure. She cleared her throat.

"Sam, you should get to class. I'll send word to Principal Figgins, Kurt, but I really would prefer it if you would lie down for a little while."

Sam immediately looked to Kurt, as if in search of permission, which made the other boy feel awkward and vaguely uneasy.

"Go on, Sam," Kurt quietly urged. "I'll see you later."

"All right," said a dubious Sam. "Text me if you need anything."

They stood there, both suddenly uncomfortable, before Kurt finally rolled his eyes and gave Sam a hug. Sam smiled and dropped his chin on Kurt's shoulder.

"I love you," he whispered. "I know you don't feel the same way, but I need you to know I love you."

At Kurt's soft gasp, Sam gently extricated himself from the embrace and hurried off down the hall, a worried Kurt staring after him. It was one thing to know Sam loved him in that way, but another thing altogether to hear it.

"Are you all right?" Emma asked in a low voice. "I know you came in this morning with Justine. New case?"

Kurt nodded absently. "Two, actually. A double homicide in Kettering, and an unknown kidnapped child."

Her eyes filled at the thought.

"The perpetrator of the Kettering murders is aware of who I am and what I do," he quietly murmured.

Emma stared at him, fear plain on her face. She swallowed heavily. "And the child?"

"Kevin," Kurt said dully. "He's dead. I saw his ghost while in the locker room with Sam. I need to contact Justine."

Emma covered her mouth with a hand as all the blood rushed from her face. She rushed him toward her office.

* * *

Emma sat rigid in her chair as Kurt spoke with his partner, horrified by these developments and worried for her student. It wasn't fair that Kurt saw these things, was forced to bear these burdens. No matter how mature he might be, he was still a child, at least in her eyes. No child should have to witness the senseless and craven violence to which Kurt was subjected.

And there was absolutely nothing she could do. She'd never felt so helpless or so angry.

"Lake Hope State Park," Kurt said, sighing. "He's been dead about four hours, Justine." He frowned. "I know it's not my fault. I never thought it was. I can't predict my dreams."

Emma winced. She knew that no matter how much or often Kurt eschewed blame, he felt horribly guilty for the people he was unable to save. She could only imagine how the loss of a young child made him feel. That he was more interested in placating and subduing his partner spoke to his character, but Emma wasn't fooled, and she doubted that Justine was, either. Kurt would view this death as a personal failure and take it very hard.

It was awful that he was made to see these things at all, let alone such terrible acts in which his interference never affected the outcome. It was pointless and cruel to foist such atrocities upon him.

"Kevin wasn't able to tell me much," he continued. "He hadn't fully comprehended that he had died, and I still had to hold up my end of my conversation with Sam." His eyes widened. "I am not dating Sam! You know I'm with Noah!" His eyes narrowed as he listened to her blather on. "Your opinion of my boyfriend is irrelevant, Justine. You are not my mother!"

He blanched. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was inappropriate of me. I am not...feeling well."

"Do you need to go the hospital?" Emma suddenly exclaimed, her worry over his head injury still paramount in her mind.

Kurt covered his eyes with a hand as Justine's screaming exploded from his cell phone.

"Justine? Justine! I'm _fine_. There was an altercation during lunch period, but I'm fine. My glucose levels are probably low because I missed lunch, and therefore I'm lightheaded."

Emma glared at him, which he ignored. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Let's return to the issue at hand, shall we?" Kurt pointedly asked, returning Emma's glare with one of his own. "His name is Kevin Parker, age six. He's from Riverlea, outside Columbus. You have the sketch. He wasn't able to tell me his address." He grimaced. "Yes, I know I'm using the present tense. _Yes_, I understand that he's dead. However, that means very little to me, as I can communicate with the dead!"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "The name of the assailant is Jeff Washington. He's the assistant coach of Kevin's soccer team. I know there are about sixty cabins at Lake Hope and, while it's not exactly in season, the park still receives moderate traffic until the winter holidays. I assume he picked a cabin as isolated as possible to minimize notice."

He nodded, his face now flush with anger. "Find the son-of-a-bitch, Justine. He's an obscenity that shouldn't be allowed to walk this earth."

Emma's eyes widened.

"Anything on the Andersons?" Kurt then asked. He listened, frowning. "I really don't see the purpose, Justine. There's nothing my presence would add to the questioning. The children all have alibis, correct?" He nodded. "Then I would prefer not to be involved at this juncture. Whomever the killer is, he was watching the family. He's aware of the two of us, and I really don't want to draw further attention to myself. This whole affair is very unsettling."

He sighed and nodded once more. "I assume the family will be monitored and that there will be a police presence at the funerals?" He shook his head. "I agree, I doubt the killer will make an appearance, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Still, I stand by my earlier hypothesis: this was professional, not personal. He's long gone by now. He's too good at this not to have done it before, and I'm sure he'll do it again."

He bit his lip. "How's Liza?" He sagged at the diatribe which spewed from Justine's mouth. "Please try and cut her some slack, Justine. I can only imagine how she's acting, but you know the mayor and city council will be merciless with her until more information is gleaned. If you think it will help, I'll speak with her and remind her that micromanaging you will do little good."

He shook his head and chuckled darkly. "Don't worry about me, Justine. I'm too valuable for her to alienate and, at the end of the day, you're my partner, not her. She knows my participation is conditional on being paired with you."

He smirked. "Yes, well, there was no reason to inform you of that tidbit before now." He laughed. "Don't threaten me with a good time, lady!" He shook his head in mirth. "I'll see you on Thursday, Justine. I'll get myself to the courthouse; there's no reason for you to act as chauffeur, and Liza's already prepared me. Please keep me apprised about any new developments with Washington or the Anderson case." He nodded. "Goodbye."

He hung up and heaved a great sigh, looking far older than his years.

"Are you all right?" Emma carefully asked.

He shrugged. "I don't even know how to answer that. Frankly, I'm exhausted, but I still have classes and Glee to get through, and then I'll somehow have to explain this," he gestured at the large bruise covering a third of his face, "to my father. I'm certainly not looking forward to it."

She nodded sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, but I thank you for the offer. If you don't mind, I'd just like to sit here quietly until it's time for my next class."

"Of course, Kurt," she said softly.

* * *

Thankfully, the rest of the school day passed without incident, though Kurt received many curious and unsubtle glances, as the story of the lunchroom incident had spread quickly throughout the school. His afternoon courses were, by chance, those he didn't share with most of his friends, save Santana or Tina, one of whom was glued to his side until the final bell rang.

He entered the choir room, escorted by Tina, and was met with gasps of shock, as those who hadn't seen him since lunch got their first looks at his face.

"Oh, my god," Rachel whispered, her eyes filling.

Kurt barely refrained from rolling his own eyes, not in the mood for her theatrics. Regardless of what had transpired, they were not friends. He had no interest in her sympathy or guilt.

Tina guided him toward the first row and deposited him between Sam and Santana, who promptly began smothering him.

"Are you okay?" Sam demanded.

"Say the word, and I'll have Hudson jumped like the bitch he is," Santana swore.

Kurt did roll his eyes at that, but assured them both that he was just fine and preferred to move on from the incident. He noted, however, that Noah was keeping his distance, and Mercedes, though she watched him from the corner of her eye, said nothing.

He was grateful. He didn't have it in him to deal with either one at the moment.

Finn was desperately trying to get his attention and would have already crossed the room to his side, had Mike and Artie not been murmuring dire threats to him. Finn looked ready to burst into tears at any moment, and Kurt couldn't bother to feel any sympathy. He knew that he himself had a temper which he often allowed to get the best of him, but his wasn't violent; Finn's was, however, and he needed to learn to get it under control. Further, while he was sure that Finn felt guilty and remorseful, the boy was probably far more worried about how Burt Hummel was going to react.

Brittany sat behind him and busied herself with his hair. For some unfathomable reason, grooming his hair always calmed her down, and the last thing he needed was an unstable Brittany attacking Finn.

"How did it go with Figgins?" he asked Santana.

She rolled her eyes. "I have detention today and tomorrow, and Hudson has it for the rest of the week. The Puckhole got off."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be," she said fiercely. "I'd do it again in a minute. Besides, this isn't the end. He still has Berry to contend with, as well as your parents. The Cheerios are all furious, and so is Sylvester. Hell, even Schuester was bitching him out."

Kurt arched a brow. "Really?" he asked, disbelief tingeing his voice.

She nodded. "He was, I don't know, _offended_ for some reason. I guess a lot of his illusions about Hudson were shattered today."

He groaned. "This is the last thing this club needs. We barely manage to get along as it is."

Sam shrugged. "Too bad. Bottom line is that you didn't do anything wrong, baby, and neither did Satan."

Santana preened, but then blinked owlishly and slowly turned to look at Sam. "Baby?" she repeated.

Sam blushed.

"Don't start," Kurt warned her.

"I won't," she chirped. "I just have one question."

He dropped his head and sighed. "What."

"Why can't you date Hot Lips?" she whined. "He's so much better for you!"

"Santana."

She held up her hands. "Okay. I've said my piece."

Kurt looked at her and snorted, filled with disbelief that she was letting it go so easily. No, he knew she was plotting something. He wasn't overly concerned, as he knew she would never be malicious to him. He was worried, however, that Sam might get caught up in her scheme and be hurt, which he would never allow. He would just have to remind Santana later of possible repercussions.

"I need to talk to you later," she suddenly hissed at him. "There's something you need to know."

That sounded ominous, and Kurt wasn't looking forward to the conversation.

Will bounced into the room, his eyes immediately landing on Kurt. He blinked, scowled ferociously at the bruise, and then glared at Finn, who quailed under the silent assault. There were so many things he wanted to ask, but most prominent of the questions was ones he needed to ask of himself: why hadn't he noticed how badly things had deteriorated between Kurt and Finn?

How many other things had he missed?

He had prided himself on caring for these children, on being there for them not only as a teacher, but a mentor. It pained him to admit how badly he had failed. He was close with Finn, Quinn, Rachel, and, surprisingly, Puck. However, he also knew Rachel had little respect for him other than as a person in a position to further her own agenda. He recalled with deep shame that any closeness he might have enjoyed with Finn was predicated on a lie about drugs Will himself had planted in the boy's locker.

Quinn had turned to him for support when she was going through the worst experience of her life, but that was more because Sue had dumped her and she had no one else, not even her parents. Will suspected that Quinn might actually have liked him as a teacher, but he doubted she would come to again if she needed help.

Puck was a mystery. Sha-boom.

He knew next to nothing about Tina, Artie, and Mike, and had never even held a conversation with Matt when the boy had attended McKinley. Sam had never had much use for him, probably because he had made friends immediately upon his arrival.

Will knew he had missed his chance with Kurt, who now had Sue and Emma squarely in his corner. He didn't know what it was that existed between Kurt and Emma, but there was something there, something which united them, which had caused Emma to become ferociously protective of him. The real surprise was Sue. No matter how much Will despised her and her games, he could never deny that she held real affection for Kurt. It had reached the point where she didn't even bother to hide it, which spoke as to how genuine it was.

Santana and Brittany had Sue; they had never needed, nor wanted, him.

And Mercedes - well, he wasn't too sure what was going on with her, actually. She appeared to be struggling through some kind of identity crisis and had been displaying behavior for which Will didn't much care. He couldn't have been alone in that boat, otherwise Kurt never would have ended their friendship. Something severe must have happened, and he was very curious as to what it was.

Whatever Kurt was hiding, Sue knew only the basics; Santana and Emma knew everything. Puck and Finn had purposefully been kept in the dark, which suggested to Will that whatever Kurt was doing was dangerous. He wasn't sure what to think about Sam, other than Sam would have supported Kurt regardless of his own misgivings.

His eyes flitted in the direction of the boy in question, who was making cow eyes at Kurt, and that was when Will realized that Sam was in love with the other boy. It was yet another thing which was so obvious, yet he had missed it.

But what about Kurt and Puck?

He didn't know what to think about that pairing. On some level, it made sense, and from what little interaction he had observed between the two, Kurt and Puck truly cared for each other, perhaps even loved each other. They had gotten together at a time in which they had both needed someone, and each had been good for the other, but he wondered if there was enough between them to sustain the relationship. He somehow doubted it.

Will blinked harshly and shook his head to clear it, as he finally noticed Rachel desperately trying to get his attention.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was lost in thought." He cleared his throat. "Kurt," he said gently, deeply sad when the boy flinched at being addressed, "are you all right to perform today? We can always reschedule."

Kurt's eyes widened with what Will wanted to hope was gratitude, but was probably just incredulity. The boy then shook his head, even though the effort obviously pained him. "No, thank you, Mr. Schuester. I'm fine."

Will nodded slowly. "Okay. In that case, would you mind going first, please?"

He didn't say anything, but he didn't want Kurt to sit around waiting forever for his turn, because eventually that horrific bruise would settle and begin to ache terribly. At the first sign of Kurt failing, Will would send him home to rest.

"That would be fine, thank you," Kurt said, nodding.

He slowly got up and trudged toward the front of the room, once again debating the sagacity of what he was about to do. It was cruel, he knew, but it had to be done. Things simply couldn't continue in the vein they had been. He loved Noah, but wasn't in love with him. Noah loved him, but wanted to be with Quinn; however, he was too scared to leave Kurt, fearful of what Kurt might do.

That was ridiculous, of course. Kurt Hummel was many things, quite a few of which were rather unflattering, but he wasn't fragile. It was frankly humiliating that Noah believed he would fall apart were they to break up. He enjoyed having a significant other, but his identity wasn't dependent on it. He had been fine before Noah, and he would be fine after.

He would probably be lonely, but he had been lonely before Noah. At least this time, he would have Santana and Sam.

Sam.

Kurt didn't know what to do about that, other than what had already been said. He was worried however, that breaking up with Noah would give Sam false hope that they had some kind of future together. He could admit to himself that it was possible he might one day feel the kind of love Sam wanted from him, but that day was a long way off.

And then, of course, there was the fallout to consider. His father and Finn would want to seek vengeance on his behalf, which he certainly neither needed nor wanted. The glee club would once again draw lines in the sand, and he was positive that, this time, the odds would be heavily stacked in his favor, which presented a whole host of other problems. Rehearsals would turn into battles in which he had no interest in participating, and that was before Rachel and Finn dealt with their own problems.

On top of all of that would be how the Cheerios would react. Very few held loyalty to Quinn, and he could absolutely see Sylvester using this to maneuver him into assuming the headship.

He repressed a sigh as he fumbled in his messenger bag for his iPod. It would probably be better if just removed himself from the equation and resigned from the club altogether.

Actually, the idea was very appealing.

He'd yet to have a solo and none was on the horizon. Mercedes and Rachel came to fisticuffs in almost every meeting. Santana was becoming more and more frustrated that her talents were being ignored, for which Kurt didn't blame her. She and Sam had presented an idea for a duet, which was promptly co-opted by Rachel and Finn.

Why did he even want to participate in this farce any longer? Every meeting was a misery, and most of the club was disillusioned. It was starting to manifest itself in their performances, as well. They had done reasonably well at Invitationals, but he sincerely doubted they'd fare any better at Regionals than they had the year previous.

But if he left, the club wouldn't even qualify, which meant they would be disbanded and he would be held responsible.

But why should he stay to help maintain the status quo when his heart was no longer invested? Just to please other people, who really could've cared less about him, so the club wouldn't lose its funding? Who the hell needed that pressure?

Rachel stormed out with regularity whenever she didn't get her way, but then she always returned and expected to be welcomed with open arms. She didn't care for them as anything other than as an extension of herself. All of the other members save him belonged to numerous clubs, but Glee was all he had.

He realized then that he had used Glee to isolate himself even further from his classmates, and for what? It didn't keep him safe. It didn't make him feel as though he belonged. It certainly wasn't showcasing his talent. He had no real performances to put on his résumé for college.

He blinked.

He was done.

He was done with Glee, with Schuester's obvious bias, with Rachel and her dramatics, with Finn and his sick need to be a leader in name only, with Noah and his indecision, with Quinn and Mercedes and their lies.

He had overheard Artie make unkind remarks about him on more than one occasion. Said comments were designed to help Artie fit in with the other guys, which Kurt actually understood and for which he held no grudge. He knew that Artie was perhaps even lower than him on McKinley's totem pole. However, Artie had not even realized that his disparaging comments had infuriated Noah and Sam. Mike had kept silent, as usual, but his dislike of Artie had increased exponentially, and Finn had gone along to get along, as he so often did.

He didn't know how Tina would react. He hoped she would understand, but they weren't as close as they had once been, and they were both to blame for that.

Other than Brittany, Santana, and Sam, he really didn't have friends in Glee. He would see the two former at Cheerios rehearsals, and he was fairly confident that Sam wouldn't hold his defection against him. As for the others...well.

He was just so _tired_.

And now he had these two cases to deal with, and a murderer possibly targeting him.

That transfer to Carmel was looking more and more lovely, to the point where he was going to discuss it with his father.

"Kurt?" asked an anxious Will.

"Hm?" He blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Schue. I was lost in thought myself."

"Kurt, are you sure you're well enough to do this?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, not meeting the man's eyes.

Well, here went everything.

Kurt cued up the song he had chosen at the last moment before turning around to stare sightlessly ahead at no one in particular. He cleared his throat.

"Before I begin, I have an announcement I'd like to make."

There was some restless shuffling, but no one spoke.

"After careful consideration..."

Will immediately knew where this was going and was desperate to prevent it, though he was positive any effort he made was sure to fail. "Kurt..." he began, his voice panicked.

"...I've decided this will be my last performance with New Directions," Kurt said, loudly enough to silence Will's protestations. He held up a hand to stall the outraged and forlorn denials. "This has been a long time coming," he continued. "Today's events have only solidified my determination. This is no longer the place for me."

"Kurt, if this is about solos..." Rachel babbled.

His glare shut her up. "Rachel, this is about the fact that I have a three-and-a-half octave range which isn't being utilized. This is about the fact that, other than you, I'm the only club member who has professional training. This is about the fact that I'm a senior member of this group and have yet to be featured in any competitive performance."

He fell silent for a brief moment, ignoring the sputtering of his colleagues. The only ones who had no reaction were Sam and Santana, who were lending him quiet support with their silence. His heart skipped a beat at how well they understood him, as well as how much he appreciated them.

"This is about the fact that I'm unhappy here," he said more sedately. "I used to wake up every morning and couldn't wait to start my day with a song." He shook his head. "That joy is gone. Singing was one my respite, it was what made me happier than anything else, but that's no longer the case. It's become a chore, a thankless burden which is never rewarded." He raised his eyes and his gaze ensnared the entire room. "I deserve better than that."

Mercedes crossed her arms and huffed. "And what about the rest of us? Without you, we don't have the numbers to compete. We'll all lose the club."

"That's not my problem," Kurt said dispassionately, "and don't you dare make me responsible for your welfare. Low numbers have been an issue since we were freshman. You've never done anything to alleviate that. You've recruited no new members. You haven't come up with any fundraising ideas or publicity events."

"Neither have you," she countered.

He shrugged. "True enough, but I certainly do more for this club than you. I design and create costumes, as well as tailor them. I fill in for Brad when he isn't available. I select and rearrange music, as well as rewrite lyrics and give voice lessons to those I help on my own time."

"Like who?" she demanded.

Sam, Santana, Mike, Brittany, Puck, and Finn raised their hands.

Rachel and Will looked at them with wide eyes.

Kurt smiled at his friends, though not at Puck or Finn, and then became serious once more. "You'll notice, Mercedes, that we didn't hold a fundraiser this year." He raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Schuester, who provided the necessary funds which the budget did not cover?"

"You did," Will quietly answered.

Mercedes flushed and dropped her eyes as several others regarded Kurt with an equal mixture of gratitude and discomfort.

"I may not have brought in any new members, Mercedes, probably because, other than the Cheerios, the people in this room are the only one who will speak to me in this school, but I've done my part. You, however, are much more content to sit in every meeting, fighting with Rachel and whining about the solos you never get, so you don't get to sit there and blame me for having the courage to bow out of this sham before it's brought to a halt."

He raised an eyebrow. "Outside of Finn and Rachel, _you've_ been the singer most featured. You resent being asked to belt the final notes of songs, but it's certainly more than the rest of us have been afforded."

"Damn right," Santana barked, nodding and glaring at the girl.

"That's true," Tina said quietly.

"Besides," Kurt added, shrugging a shoulder, "most of us don't even like each other, and it's becoming apparent with each performance. There's no unity, no sense of common purpose or a shared goal." He cocked his head. "Outside of a few people, I dare say I won't be missed. The contempt most of you have leveled at me over the years, quiet or not, has not gone unnoticed. Your comments about me, my sexuality, my clothes, and my voice have not gone unheard. You don't need me; you just need my physical presence to fulfill some random statistic. I'm worth more than that."

He was silent for a moment. "This club was once one of the most important things in my life, and I have had some good experiences here, but not enough to justify being continually ignored or belittled. Those people who are truly my friends will continue to be such, regardless of whether or not I'm a member."

"Kurt," Will said quietly, "I'd like to discuss this with you privately, please."

"There's really no point, Mr. Schuester. There's nothing you could say which would change my mind. I really do believe you've tried to do right by us, and I hold no ill will for you or anyone else. It's just time for me to move on."

As he spoke them, Kurt realized his words were true. He didn't resent Schuester. The man had arguably done the best he could. He'd had no experience running a show choir, and the group would have been disbanded much sooner had he not taken over. He'd had no support from the faculty or administration and, in fact, had been actively and routinely sabotaged. He'd been dealt an incredibly pathetic budget and had done what he could with it. He had featured Finn and Rachel because they had the most commercial voices and were, therefore, the best shot the club as a whole had for notice.

No, he hadn't always been fair, but was it even realistic to have expected him to be? This wasn't a youth group where they sat around discussing their fears and woes. All of them had focused much more on their personal dramas and travails than working as a cohesive unit.

"You do what's best for you, Kurty," Brittany said. "Don't worry about us. You're not responsible for Glee."

"Thank you, Sweetness," he said quietly.

Sam wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. He understood all too well how Kurt felt. He had been enthusiastically recruited by Finn, but little had resulted from his joining. He hadn't been given any solos outside of mandatory assignments. Mostly, he was just stuck playing guitar for Finn and Rachel when Puck couldn't be bothered.

He turned to look at Santana, who was staring down at the floor, and realized she was having similar thoughts. She had one of the best voices in the club, but she was routinely ignored. He knew she had no use for most of the people here. She was also the featured soloist for the Cheerios; if she left, she still had that on which to focus.

Santana sensed his eyes on her and raised her gaze to meet his. They both nodded.

"Thank you for listening," Kurt said primly, again crossing over to the piano, on top of which sat the iPod docking station. He pressed play and centered himself as he waited for the music to begin. He thought about Noah.

This was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life.

* * *

**End Note**: I decided to end this on somewhat of a cliffhanger simply because I haven't done that for a while and I didn't want the chapter to go on longer than necessary. This chapter dealt with a lot of secondary issues which needed to be addressed to move story along and free Kurt for future plot points. One thing I want to state clearly is that this story is indeed a true crossover between _Glee_ and _Medium_. I'm not just borrowing _Medium_ characteristics for the story. Allison DuBois, et al will be appearing soon.


	6. Who Looks Inside Awakens

"_There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure._" ~ Paolo Coelho, **The Alchemist**

* * *

Kurt drew in a slow breath to center himself and immediately regretted it when he was assaulted with a vision.

The audience didn't know just what had happened, but, in the space of approximately three seconds, Kurt had gone from clinically detached to enraged. They watched with curious fascination and not a small amount of fear as he stomped toward the piano, abruptly turned off his selection before it even really began, and then scrolled furiously through his iPod.

He apparently found that of which he was in search and he grunted in satisfaction before stalking back to the center of the room.

The rest look at each other in bewilderment. Even Mercedes had never seen Kurt this angry. Those who knew him, well, however - namely Santana, Artie, Tina, and Brittany - understood that the shit was just about to hit the fan. They truly hoped none of it would land on them.

Puck and Finn both squirmed in discomfort, each sure one or both of them was about to filleted.

Rachel regarded the scene with wide eyes and a thrill of anticipation which vaguely made her feel ashamed. Despite their frequent quarrels, she really was Kurt's biggest fan. She knew how talented he was and was sincerely upset that Kurt was leaving. She wouldn't try to stop him; she knew he wouldn't take it well and she didn't want to further antagonize him. That aside, she was desperately curious as to what he would perform.

* * *

He would not cry here, not in front of these people. Never again would he exhibit one ounce of emotion before them. Never again would he present them an opportunity to dissect his identity and feelings as though he were some biology specimen.

Fuck these people.

Truly, with very few exceptions, he cared not a whit if he never saw any of them again. He would be making that transfer to Carmel as soon as possible, or perhaps he would consider Dalton or another boarding school. He was loath for people to assume he was running away, but, at the same time, he didn't much care.

Goddamn visions.

He could kill Noah - no, _Puck_ - for this.

Kurt knew he had been stupid to romanticize Puck's infidelity with Quinn. He had been so desperate not to cause waves, not to end the only relationship he'd ever had, despite that a significant portion of it was based on nothing but lies and illusion. As long as he could allow himself to believe that Puck loved him, he could rationalize anything, even Puck's affair with the mother of his child.

And now he knew for a fact that Puck _did_ love him. Puck sincerely loved him, wanted to be with him, wanted to sleep with him, wanted everything from and with him.

Yet had slept with Quinn anyway.

Why?

Not because Quinn was Puck's epic true love. Not because of unfinished business and commiseration over Beth. Not even because Puck much liked Quinn as a _person_.

It was because Kurt wouldn't sleep with him.

So Puck, being Puck, had followed his pecker to greener pastures as usual.

Sex with Quinn didn't diminish Puck's love for him. In fact, all it did was make Puck feel incredibly guilty, for which Kurt was glad.

The worst - the absolute _worst _- part of all of it was that Puck had justified his cheating to himself as doing it to spare _his_ feelings. Puck hadn't wanted him to feel rushed or pressured or made to feel that their relationship was contingent upon sex. So instead of discussing it together, Puck had just nailed his former one night stand.

Yes, it was true that, in the beginning of their relationship, Kurt hadn't been ready for sex. He still wasn't, to be honest, but he _was_ ready for...other things. Things which could have been very pleasurable for both of them.

He repressed a sigh.

As tempting as it was to blame it all on Puck, he knew he bore responsibility, as well. He could have raised the issue of sex, indicating that he was ready to move past second base. He had known about Puck and Quinn and should have confronted them, but had held his tongue because it was easier for everyone, including himself, to let sleeping dogs lie.

He suddenly remembered a line from a Dolly Parton film:

_You know who came up with the phrase 'let sleeping dogs lie?'_

_A dog._

He knew he would have to own his part in all of this, even though it wasn't _nearly_ as major as the part that Puck, Quinn, and even Mercedes had played. But that was later.

This was now.

And, right now, Kurt Hummel was pretty fucking sick of everyone making decisions for him.

* * *

Santana frowned the moment the first note sounded.

She recognized the song immediately, being a huge Kelly Clarkson stan. The only other who even approached her level of devotion was Kurt, who had proclaimed Miss Kelly as the only _real_ American Idol.

She felt several things.

First was surprise that Kurt would even attempt a Miss Kelly song. He would be the first to admit that his voice, while pretty damn amazing, was incongruent with that of the Idol.

Second was pleasure, because she knew Kurt wouldn't try unless he knew he could nail it. After that bullshit Diva Off, Santana had been waiting for a chance to see what Kurt could really _do_ when he unleashed his true abilities. She had the feeling Rachel was about to be blown away and she was so damned happy she had a front row seat for it.

Third was that she was probably going to have to commit murder, because this song - and Kurt singing it - could only mean one thing: Puck had fucked around on him.

This was unacceptable.

She had made it clear to the Puckhole when he started dating Kurt that, should he hurt Kurt in any manner, shape, or form, she would turn him into Humpty Dumpty, insofar as teams of cadaver dogs would be required to put Puck back together again.

The only question that remained would be whether Puck's death would be ruled premeditated or a crime of passion. She shrugged. She supposed she'd have to wait until she had more answers. A stolen look at an incensed Brittany suggested she'd have a partner in crime.

She crossed her arms over her chest with satisfaction.

* * *

Bright electric guitar chords and a stead percussion burst forth from the speakers and Kurt felt it wash over him. He welcomed it with open arms, wanted its cleansing, wanted the sharper focus it would provide, because he knew this was going to be hell. He would be shredding lives today, and it scared him a little that he was so uncaring about it.

"_Thick skin, soft touch_," he sang, voice gentle but with steel beneath it as he shook his head in rueful disbelief, "_heart of gold, but it's just n-n-n-not enough_."

How much thicker was he expected to make his skin? He had lost count of how many hours a day he spent exfoliating the sneers, taunts, whispers, glares, and snickers that were leveled at him every single day. He felt like a walking callus.

He was grateful to have friends like Santana and Brittany who were more than happy to take on his detractors, but they shouldn't have to do it. He wasn't weak; he wasn't. Maybe he should show his strength more often?

He should have shown Puck. Puck should have _known_. But he hadn't, and that hurt a lot. Of course, Kurt knew that some of that responsibility was on him for never confiding in his boyfriend about what his life truly entailed. He never had and had later talked himself into believing there must have been a reason he hadn't, and he guessed he now had his answer.

The idea of having a boyfriend - a real, _live_ boyfriend who held his hand and hugged him and kissed him and wasn't afraid of showing affection - had blinded him to the fact that, in the end, he hadn't really trusted Puck. He didn't know if that had been smart of him or just cynical. Obviously, Puck inspired distrust, but how much might that have changed had he just given Puck the chance?

He'd never know.

What he did know was that he was a good person. Yes, he was stiff and reserved and aloof and somewhat arrogant, but he was a _good_ person. He helped people. He made a difference in this world, and even if he was the only one who ever knew it, that was just fine. He didn't do it for accolades or approval. He did it because it was the right thing to do, because he couldn't imagine _not_ doing it.

He deserved better than this.

He dropped his arms and his fingers unconsciously curled into fists. "_Forgiving arms, the higher road, working hard but it's n-n-n-not enough_," he spat.

He _had_ worked hard, he now realized. It had taken a lot from him and out of him to forgive Puck for their cruel and hurtful past. He'd lost count of the number of dumpster tosses and ruined clothes and vandalized lockers and stolen possessions. He would never forget the hateful words and the malicious gossip and the induced fear and paranoia. He would never forget the concern and bewilderment and fear that lighted his father's eyes every time he walked through the door after school.

He would never forget any of it, but he _had_ forgiven it.

He had forgiven Puck because Puck had been honestly sorry. There was no doubt about that in Kurt's mind. Puck truly regretted his past behavior, and that was what had allowed Kurt to forgive him. They had started seeing more of each other, and the more they did, the more Kurt began to differentiate between _Puck_ and _Noah._

He loved Noah. He wasn't in love with Noah, but he suspected he would always love him.

Maybe that was also part of the problem. Puck was in love with him, but he wasn't in love with Puck. On some level, Puck probably sensed this and had started repeating old patterns and acting out. Kurt could understand that, but he wasn't so sure he could forgive it. Puck could've come and talked with him about his feelings and their future together.

_Noah_ would have.

But Puck wasn't Noah. They were separate and unequal. Kurt suspected that Puck would always have more control than Noah. It was sad, because he did believe that he _could _have fallen in love with Noah if only Puck had allowed them more time.

Yes, he could understand Puck's behavior. What he could not, and would never be able, to understand was that of Quinn and Mercedes. Quinn had been a friend; Mercedes had once been his best friend. It wasn't that they had chosen their own happiness over his; he could accept that. They didn't owe him anything.

Except honesty.

He had expected that of them.

It was their lies he couldn't understand or forgive.

He raised his eyes and locked gazes with Puck. "_You said 'I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough_,'" his voice plaintive and sorrowful. He then set his jaw and his phrasing became more deliberate and harsh. "_But what you really mean is 'you're not good enough, you're not good enough_.' He shook his head. "_You can't deliver, so you turn it around_."

Kurt was unsurprised that, after Santana, it was Finn who first cottoned on to the real meaning behind this performance. Purposefully obtuse to the point of neurasthenia, Finn nevertheless had a real gift for understanding emotional matters. Kurt didn't truly understand how this was possible, as Finn often didn't take into consideration the feelings of anyone but himself.

Still, he saw the light dawning in his soon-to-be-stepbrother's eyes and he repressed a shudder. It was going to take a lot to convince Finn to stay out of it and leave Puck alone, and he wasn't sure he had the wherewithal or interest to do so. It would be so easy to allow Finn to punish Puck for him, but he knew it was wrong.

He was just so tired of always doing the right thing, of being the bigger person, of taking the high road, of turning the other cheek. He was just...so tired.

* * *

A crash of chords and drums, and Kurt began wailing.

"_You didn't let me down, you didn't tear me apart. You just opened my eyes while breaking my heart_."

Several heads swung in Puck's direction, who immediately dropped his own to avoid the searing gazes.

Rachel and Mercedes, however, stared at Kurt with undisguised awe, not knowing where in the hell he had found that voice. They had never heard him sound like that, but there was no mistaking that signature tone. But now there was _more_. There was resonance and phrasing and belting and _power_.

"_You didn't do it for me. I'm not as dumb as you think_," Kurt growled, still furious that Puck was ignorant enough to think sleeping with Quinn was somehow _good_ for their relationship and Kurt's own mental and sexual health.

Puck sharply raised his eyes and looked into Kurt's own. It was at that moment that he knew that Kurt _knew_. He wasn't sure how and he really didn't care. He had hurt, sincerely _hurt_, his Duchess. His sweet Kurt, who had been nothing but kind and caring and loving to him. His beautiful Kurt, whom he loved so damn much it took his breath away.

Not for the first time he wondered why he was always so intent on sabotaging whatever bit of happiness he managed to find for himself.

"_You just made me cry while claiming that you love me, you love me, you love me._"

Puck's own eyes welled the moment he saw the first tear fall from Kurt's eyes. He bit his lip so sharply it drew blood. He loved Kurt more than he thought it was possible for him to love anyone other than Beth. He paid Kurt lip service by telling him over and over again how much he loved the other boy, but he'd always had the suspicion that Kurt didn't really believe him.

So he had started banging Quinn, whom he didn't love at all. He wasn't even sure he liked her that much. But she had been there and been willing and was the mother of his child and...and he had fucked up again. Jesus, would he ever stop?

"_You said you love me but that I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough_."

Christ, what the fuck had he done to his Duchess? He had make Kurt think he wasn't good enough? Not good enough for _Noah Puckerman_?

If _anyone _wasn't good enough, it was Puck. He knew he wasn't good enough for Kurt. Everyone had told him that, but it had been unnecessary; he had already known. So what he did do? He had proved them right. His own stupid insecurities had led him to hurting the only innocent person in all of this, the only person who had been squarely in his corner, even after Puck had hurt him so badly.

But that was over now. Even if Kurt could forgive him - and he doubted that was the case - Kurt would never be in his corner that way again, and, boy, did that fucking _hurt_. It was pretty damn amazing to have someone like Kurt Hummel so completely on your side because, even though he'd call you on your shit in private, in public he was huge flying buttress of support. He had zero fucks to give when his friends were attacked, turning into a vicious ninja and verbally eviscerating people.

"_Strong hold, a fun ride, but rollercoasters are just n-n-not enough_," Kurt sang, his shoulders hunched, as though an invisible weight had been placed upon them. "_I keep it in, you wear me out._" He stared down at the floor. "_This kind of love is n-n-n-not enough_."

It was hard to hear, probably just as hard as it was for Kurt to say. Sing.

Puck knew Kurt had taken a lot of shit when they had gotten together. Lots of girls, mostly ones that he had once banged, hated Kurt for turning him gay, which was just stupid, because he wasn't gay and you couldn't just turn someone gay. Packs of idiot dudes were terrified of Kurt and his theorized mystical power to turn straight guys into raging homos. Those who had once been silent supporters of Kurt - which was bullshit, because they'd only ever stood back and watched as Kurt had the shit kicked out of him - hated him for forgiving his former bully.

Their friends, so-called and otherwise, had been divided.

Puck was aware of how badly Santana and Brittany had trashed him to Kurt at every opportunity. He hadn't been surprised by Satan's actions, but those of Brittany had kind of...hurt. Then he remembered that he had treated Santana like shit and Brittany loved Santana. She also loved Kurt - was, in fact, in love with him in the way only a girl could be in love with a gay guy - and was worried he'd be another casualty of Puck's wandering dick.

And they hadn't been wrong.

Still, he knew how that had bothered Kurt, that two of his best friends couldn't or wouldn't be happy for him. That just made Puck feel even worse, because that meant that, at some time in the not distant past, he really _had_ made Kurt happy. He'd just been too blind to see it and now would never be given another chance.

"_You said 'I'm just a sinking ship, I'm just a sinking ship'_," Kurt sang, a trace of mocking in his voice as his eyes flashed. "_But what you really mean is you can't handle this, you can't handle this. You couldn't win, so you turned it around._"

Puck winced. There was some definite truth there, for sure. He wanted Kurt, wanted him desperately, but, Quinn aside, he hadn't been a good boyfriend. He was constantly jealous of Kurt's other relationships, harangued him about Sam constantly, and had tried on more than one occasion to force Kurt into choosing him over Santana, figuring that if he could just get her out of the picture, she'd take Brittany with her and things would be so much better.

He didn't know just what was between them, but Kurt and Santana had some freaky vibe that was almost terrifying to behold. They spoke without words, without looks, even without being in the same fucking _room_. They were tuned into each other on a level no one else would ever be able to comprehend.

Artie and Tina had mostly remained silent, but Kurt had known them since they were all in diapers. The three of them experienced various levels of closeness throughout the years, but understood each other well enough that words were unnecessary.

Puck knew that Tina was cautiously supportive and wanted to believe Puck would do right by her friend. That had touched him deeply and he hadn't resented her reticence; instead, he had wanted to prove to her that he was worthy of Kurt.

Well, he'd fucked that up, hadn't he?

"_You didn't let me down, you didn't tear me apart. You just opened my eyes while breaking my heart_. _You didn't do it for me. I'm not as dumb as you think. You just made me cry while claiming that you love me, you love me, you love me_."

Artie was Kurt's best male friend. Finn was deluded into believing that title fell to him, but those who really knew Kurt were made aware of just how much history he shared with Artie. Their friendship was weird because Artie often denied Kurt or made fun of him in order to fit in with other guys. Kurt said it was because Artie was so insecure due to his disability that he often didn't know how to relate to people.

Puck thought that was horseshit. Wheels was awkward as all hell, but that didn't give him the right to run roughshod over one of the only people who'd ever been on his side. Then he realized he had pulled the same shit with Finn, so how could he blame the big lug for despising him? How could he judge Kurt for forgiving Artie? How could he be mad at Artie for acting like he once had?

It was all such a clusterfuck.

Rachel was Kurt's biggest fan in a really scary stalkerish way. She could never make up her mind if his relationship with Kurt was a good thing or a bad one. She wanted same-sex couples to have all the rights afforded to their straight counterparts and she wanted Kurt to be happy, but she had dated Puck and didn't think him capable of making Kurt happy. There was also a part of her that was intensely jealous, and Puck could never figure out if she was jealous of him, of Kurt, or of both of them. She really was fucking crazy.

Then there were Mike, Sam, and Finn, all of whom liked Kurt as more than just a friend.

Puck knew this for a fact.

After he'd had that threesome with April Rhodes and Matt Rutherford, Rutherford had confided in him that Chang had the hots for Kurt. He asked that Puck not make it difficult for them if Mike ever worked up the nerve to pursue Kurt.

At the time, Puck hadn't realized why that had made him so angry. He had dismissed it as not wanting to see homos in action, but he'd just had a threesome with another dude and hadn't bitched when their balls touched or when Rutherford had grabbed his ass, presumably for leverage. It had actually been kind of hot, knowing that even dudes wanted his fine ass.

No, it wasn't the gay thing. It was a _Kurt_ thing. Kurt was _his_.

Pulling pigtails.

That was what had actually sent him on his inner sojourn to discover why he was always giving Kurt such a hard time. When he arrived at the answer, he had been so ashamed of himself, he had gone to Kurt begging for forgiveness and had received it.

And so much more.

He had won the Duchess.

Then he threw him away.

_Fuck_.

"_You said you love me but that I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough_."

Chang mostly just lusted after Kurt, and that was fine with Puck, because, seriously, who wouldn't? The dude had never grown the balls to ask Kurt out, so he continued to pine in silence. Still, it hadn't escaped Puck's attention that Chang had pursued one of Kurt's best friends. Sure, Mike loved Tina and she him, but he had only ever gone after her to get closer to Kurt, and that was pretty gross.

Then there was Finn, the idiot who would never figure out that he was in love with Kurt, though he definitely was. Puck knew Finn better than anyone, and he knew when the guy had it bad. Once Kurt had gotten over his crush on Finn and diverted his attention elsewhere, that was when Finn had begun to realize how much he missed Kurt. How much he missed the attention Kurt paid to him. How Kurt always took his calls and dropped everything to help him.

And the more Finn thought about that, the more he understood that it wasn't just the attention and devotion he missed, but Kurt himself. Kurt was always kind and patient with him, didn't call him names, didn't think he was stupid, but was also honest with him.

Yeah, Finn loved Kurt and was a little too excited that he would soon be moving into Kurt's house, but because Finn was _Finn_, he didn't know how to relate to Kurt any better than he had last year. He didn't want to consider his feelings for Kurt too closely because he was worried how deeply they ran. So he stood off to the side maligning him and making Kurt feel like shit for being with him, never realizing that he was actually hurting Kurt.

Finally, there was Sam.

Puck knew if Sam had transferred in last year, Sam and Kurt would probably have been engaged by now. When they were together, everyone could see it, how right they were together, how much they - gag - completed each other. Kurt was more..._Kurt_ with Sam than he was with anyone else. He let down all his walls and it was a beautiful thing to see, but it was also devastating because Puck knew that would never, ever be him.

"_Your love feels different. It's like a blow to the head with your compliments_."

Christ. The Duchess really knew how to strike a metaphorical blow. It would have hurt a lot less if Kurt had just rammed a log into his nuts because the point had just been driven home.

Not only was everything they had now over, but they were back to where they were a year ago. Likening their love to a blow to the head was really fucking intense.

* * *

"_Your love hurts deeper_," Kurt snarled, furious with himself for the tears he was unable to stop himself from shedding. "_It's like a brick in the sea, and I'm drowning with it_."

He then almost keeled over as another vision assaulted him, and it truly could be described in no other way, for he had never felt pain this badly. He had never been so hurt, so devastated, so betrayed. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming his fury.

It wasn't enough that Puck had been sleeping with Quinn. It wasn't enough that they, as well as Mercedes, had been lying to him for _months_.

Oh, no.

Puck couldn't be content with fucking one of his former friends. He also had to fuck his _best_ friend.

Puck had slept with Sam.

"_You didn't let me down, you didn't tear me apart._"

No, he would _not _allow himself to be torn apart by this. He was stronger than this, stronger than them, and stronger than this hurt and disbelief. And, as Miss Kelly said, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Well, Kurt figured he would be goddamn Superman after this.

_"You just opened my eyes while breaking my heart. You didn't do it for me, I'm not as dumb as you think. You just made me cry while claiming that you love me, you love me, you love me_."

His heart _was_ broken; that, he could admit. He just wasn't sure who had wrecked it so completely: Puck or Sam.

Sam, his best friend.

Sam, his _home_.

Sam.

His _everything_.

This was too much to bear, this agony. He just wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole, because there was no way he would ever be able to move beyond this. Just hours before, his sweet Sam had stood with him in the locker room and told him he loved him.

And Kurt had _believed_ that. He knew it was true. How could he not have seen it? How could Sam have hidden it from him for _months_?

Apparently the same way he had concealed he had slept with Puck.

"_You said you love me but that I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough._"

Sam could have told him. It happened at the beginning of the summer, before Kurt and Puck had started dating. Kurt knew about Puck's one night stands, so what was one more? He was positive he and Sam still would have become best friends.

After all, if sleeping with Noah Puckerman precluded someone from being friends with Kurt Hummel, well, Kurt would pretty much have no friends.

When he thought about all of the months Puck had complained to him about his close relationship with Sam, of Puck's jealous taunts, of his sick accusations - and the whole time it had been Puck himself who had slept with Sam.

Sam.

Who had _lied _to him.

He turned a scathing glare onto a startled and soon to be terrified Sam, who had no idea why on earth his Angel was looking at him that way.

* * *

Santana narrowed her eyes.

Oh. Hell. _No_.

She made to stand up but was pulled back down by both Brittany and Artie.

* * *

Kurt poured his bitter resentment into his voice as he continued to glare at Sam. "_So understand it means nothing_," he seethed, "_when you say you love me_."

It was all Sam could do not to burst into tears. Why was Kurt so angry with him? What had he done? Where was this coming from?

Kurt's eyes slid toward Mercedes as his voice continued to soar. "_When you said you loved me_."

She flushed horribly at his use of past tense. He knew, she realized. There hadn't been much doubt given the song and the feelings he was obviously expressing, but he knew more than she thought. She didn't know _how_ he knew, but she had given up trying to figure that out a long time ago.

Kurt then turned toward Finn. "_You love me!_"

Rachel's mouth fell open at his delivery, of his power and control and vibrato and his absolutely perfect pitch. There was absolutely no way she could, in good conscience, allow him to resign from the club. Not after finally witnessing what he could actually do. Puck was disposable, however, and she was sure Santana could take care of that. She had no idea what Sam had to do with all of this, but she sure had a pretty damned good idea of what Mercedes had done.

Finn couldn't help but stare at the huge bruise on Kurt's face, the one he had put there, and he felt a brand of shame he had never before experienced - and it was killing him. The one person he had never wanted to hurt he had hurt most of all.

Kurt walked over and stood before Puck, looking deeply into his eyes. "_When you say you love me, you love me, you love me_." His voice shifted up a key with each repetition of the phrase, his melisma unwavering.

He stepped back and somehow managed to ensnare Puck, Finn, Sam, Quinn, and Mercedes in his relentless gaze.

"_You didn't let me down, you didn't tear me apart. You just opened up my eyes while breaking my heart. You didn't do it for me, I'm not as dumb as you think. You just made me cry while claiming that you love me, you love me, you love me_."

He scoffed, shaking his head in incredulity.

"_You know the truth is that you're not good enough_." His glare intensified. "_You're not good enough._"

The music then died away and they were all enveloped in an oppressive silence.

* * *

Will blinked slowly before clearing his throat. "Kurt..."

"What the fuck was that, Tink?" Santana demanded, leaping to her feet. "What the hell is going on here?"

Tina snorted and glared at Puck. "Isn't it obvious? Puck cheated. Again." She smirked. "I'm guessing it was with Quinn. Patterns do tend to repeat, after all, and Puck is nothing if not predictable."

Finn shook his head as he cracked his knuckles. "How could you, man?" he asked of Puck. "He gave you everything. He forgave you for some really heinous shit. How could you just throw it back in his face like that? What kind of asshole are you?"

For once, Santana was resolutely on Team Finn.

Quinn looked down at the floor as though it contained the answers to the universe. She was appalled and embarrassed and angry. She was angry at Kurt for exposing them like this. She was angry at herself for sleeping with Puck in the first place and for choosing Mercedes over Kurt.

But most of all, she was angry because she had proved what so many had said last year. She was a slut. She was a bitch. She was a horrible person.

So she kept her eyes trained on the floor because she knew if she looked up and into Kurt's eyes, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from crying and she didn't deserve tears, not even her own, not now.

Rachel frowned, cocked her head, and turned toward Mercedes. "You knew."

Anything anyone else planned to say died in the wake of that announcement. And it _was_ an announcement. Rachel's phrasing didn't lend itself to anything but a foregone conclusion.

"Wow," muttered a bitter Brittany. "What a bitch move."

"But not surprising," said a lofty Artie. "She threw away the best friend she'll ever have for the sake of popularity and a girl who doesn't even like her."

"That's not true," Mercedes argued.

"Oh, _please_," Mike snapped, rolling his eyes. "We all know the only reason Quinn hangs out with you is because you're the only one willing to hang with her. No one else wants the job. Neither one of you has any other friends."

Mercedes gaped as her eyes travelled the room, distressed when almost every single person nodded in agreement with Mike's cutting words.

"A little lonely on that limb, Mercedes?" Rachel simpered. "For three years I heard nothing from you but how horrible I was to Kurt, but you know what? When he and I threw knives at each other, at least we saw them coming. You just buried all of yours in his back."

Mercedes flinched. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" Finn asked. "So we don't know that, before the end of school last year, you threw Kurt away like a bag of trash? That you instead chose a girl you didn't even know and who had only...condescended...to speak to you because no one else would talk to her? You chose _Quinn_ over _Kurt_, and she chose you because there was no other choice. Once you dogged Kurt, Quinn knew there was no way he'd choose her over you, because she was the reason for the split."

Santana crossed her legs and kicked back. Hudson was on point here and she was enjoying it. She was still going to kick his ass for punching Kurt, though. No one got away with that shit when she was around.

Puck looked up at Kurt and sighed. "I deserve everything you're about to say to me. I won't bother apologizing. We both know how sorry I am, and we both know there's no way we can come back from this."

Quinn's eyes widened and she turned toward him so fast her neck almost snapped.

Santana was stunned. "You...you _want_ to come back from this? You want to be with Tink? Seriously?"

Puck dropped his eyes. "I love him. I really do."

She stared at him, befuddled, but grinned when she saw Quinn's eyes fill with incomprehension.

"I know you do," Kurt said softly, "and if you had come to me when it first happened, I would have forgiven you."

Puck flinched before swallowing heavily and raising his gaze. "You would have?" he croaked.

Kurt gave him a sad smile. "You're no mystery to me, Puck..."

Puck flinched again at not being addressed by his real name. He only allowed Kurt to call him Noah, and he was pretty sure he'd never allow anyone but Kurt to call him that again.

"...I know who you are and I love that person," Kurt continued. "I know why you believe you did this, but don't mistake belief for fact. You didn't save me from anything. You could have, and should have, come to me before turning to someone else. You had no idea what I wanted or was ready for. You made assumptions, and they cost both of us. A lot."

"You'll never be able to forgive me, will you?" Puck whispered. "We're never going to be together."

Kurt released a quiet sigh. "No, but I will forgive you because I know you regret what you did. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I know you love me. So I can forgive you for Quinn because I know both of you have never gotten over giving Beth up for adoption. Honestly, I somewhat expected this to happen."

Puck squeezed his eyes shut as Quinn choked on a sob.

"But I can't forgive Quinn or Mercedes, because they knew exactly what they were doing, how much it would hurt me, and they did it anyway." He looked at Quinn. "You were my friend. I helped you because I wanted to, because how you were being treated was wrong, and if anyone understands that, it's me. If this were last year, I'd say bygones."

He shook his head. "I can't do that now, and it's the fact that you lied which so offends me. It took a lot out of me and a lot from me to be honest with myself and everyone here about who I am. It didn't matter that everyone already knew, because, until I was ready to admit it, it wasn't real. I've worked too hard and for too long to go backwards now. I won't let anyone step all over me again."

Quinn's eyes spilled over. She was completely humiliated.

He turned to Mercedes. "I don't know what I ever did to you, what I ever said to you, that makes you think how you've treated me is any way acceptable. I had thought that we had just gone our separate ways, which sometimes happens even with the closest of friends, but now I realize I never knew you at all. If I did, we never would have been friends, because I could never do to you - to _anyone_ - what you've done to me."

"Kurt..." she tried to interject.

"I didn't ask," he interrupted, "and I really don't care." He looked back at Puck. "What I can never forgive you for is sleeping with Sam."

Sam released a low moan in his throat which erupted into a squeak as he turned beet red.

"What?" Finn breathed.

Kurt kept his eyes trained on Puck. "How many months did you accuse me of cheating on you with Sam, when, all the while, you were sleeping with Quinn? How many times did you demand I end my friendship with him, proclaiming that, if I truly loved you, I would choose you over him? And as angry as I am at Sam, I know one thing for certain: as much as he loves me, he never would have asked me to choose."

Puck curled a lip. "I knew it," he hissed. "I knew he was after you."

Kurt's glare intensified. "You don't get to have hurt feelings, Puck, not about this. You don't have the right to be jealous about what someone else feels for me, not after how you've acted." He cocked his head. "You know what I think? I think you've known for quite a while that Sam was in love with me and, instead of admitting that you had been with him, you tried to demonize both him and me in order to assuage your own guilt." He shook his head. "That's just pathetic."

Puck flushed with anger and looked away.

Kurt shrugged. "In the end, it doesn't really matter. I'm not going to be with you. I'm not going to be with Sam. I'm not going to reconsider my decision to leave Glee. In fact, after I walk out of this room, I'll be going to the principal's office to withdraw from McKinley altogether. I've been offered a spot at Carmel as the cheerleading captain, as well as guaranteed solos with Vocal Adrenaline."

Rachel gasped. "You can't!"

"I most certainly can," he shot back. "In fact, I can't believe I've waited this long. With the exception of these five people," he said, indicating Artie, Tina, Mike, Brittany, and Santana, "there's nothing for me here. Carmel is a better school with better credentials and programs. I only have to get through another year and a half before I leave this miserable state for good."

He raised a brow. "And, quite frankly, I'm anxious never to see some of you again. I'm sure the feeling is entirely mutual."

"Kurt," Sam whispered. "Please don't go. Please don't leave because of me."

"I'm not leaving because of you, Sam," Kurt replied. "I would never allow one person to have that much power over me." He paused. "I'm leaving because I deserve better than this." His eyes panned around the room. "Let's just be honest for once, shall we? Completely and totally honest."

They blinked.

"Aside from Rachel and Finn, how many of you are happy here?" he asked. "Really, truly happy?" He then held up a hand. "I'm not asking how you feel about singing and dancing as activities, but about this club and its politics in particular."

Several exchanged anxious glances.

Santana shrugged. "Not me. I show up to hang with you and Brit. I like singing and dancing, sure, but I do that with you two all the time anyway."

Brittany nodded. "Me too. When I remember how to get here, it's mostly to play with my friends."

Kurt turned to Tina. "Do you feel valued here?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "No," she said, shaking her head. "Not at all."

"Me either," Artie whispered.

"There's no real room here for any guy except Finn," Mike said. "He's Schue's favorite. We all know it."

Finn flushed and Will closed his eyes in mortification.

Kurt nodded and turned to Rachel. "I want to ask you a question."

"All right," she said nodding.

He raised a brow. "Will you answer truthfully and without pressing your usual agenda?"

She frowned.

"Is Finn's voice truly any better than that of Sam or Puck?"

Her eyes remained locked with his, but she didn't answer. She didn't need to.

He nodded again. "Mister Schuester, I sincerely wish you luck with this club. Not to be rude, but I think you're going to need it. Santana, Brittany, Artie, and Tina, I'll speak with you later. Mike, I regret we didn't become closer friends. As for the rest of you, with perhaps the possible exception of Rachel, I can honestly say if I never see you again, it will be too soon. I'm out."

He picked up his bag and left the room.

"You're such a bitch," a voice hissed.

The others turned toward the source and were startled to discover it was Tina, who was glaring at Mercedes.

"You don't understand..." Mercedes said weakly.

"We don't need to," Rachel chirped. "It's not about that fact that you threw your once best friend under the bus, Mercedes, but the fact that if you could do that to Kurt, you'd do it to anyone."

Mercedes scowled. "Don't pretend you're not thrilled he's gone."

Rachel's laughter was surprising and borderline psychotic. "You don't know me, Mercedes, and you don't know anything about my relationship with Kurt. The bottom line is that I want to sing with the best, and that's him. You whine and complain about your role here, but Kurt was right: outside of Finn and myself, you've been the singer most featured. Admittedly, your belts are better than mine, but your voice has no more power than mine or Santana's."

Santana narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Kurt is unique," Rachel continued. "He can sing _anything_. Do you understand how rare that is? He can do pop, Broadway, the American songbook, jazz, rock, and he totally brought the funk. I've heard him sing in over twelve languages, only half of which he can actually speak. I've heard him sing _opera _and nail it. Unlike the rest of you, I know how special he is."

She smirked. "No, Kurt and I will probably never be great friends, and I'm sad about that, but don't ever mistake our rivalry as disrespect. Outside of my fathers, there's no one I respect more than Kurt Hummel."

Mercedes gaped at her.

Rachel dismissed her with a flick of her eyes. "Noah, I wish I could say I was surprised, but I can't. In fact, I'm not going to say anything, because your conscience is probably roasting you over an open spit right now. And you know what? Good, because you deserve it."

She looked at Quinn. "You make really poor choices."

She turned to Finn. "I don't know how I feel about you right now. Don't think I've forgotten about the scene in the cafeteria. You struck Kurt. It doesn't matter if you were going for Noah. I won't be with someone who resorts to physical violence when they're frustrated. I'm not a Lifetime movie."

She paused and set her jaw. "Knowing that you called Kurt that...word..." She shook her head. "Kurt may have forgiven you - or maybe he didn't, I don't know - but I'm not sure if I can. I don't have a problem admitting that Kurt is much more decent than I am."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I've heard my fathers called that word for as long as I can remember. To me, there is no greater insult, no word that is more demeaning, more vile, or more reprehensible. I love you, Finn, but right now? I don't like you."

She stood and strapped on her backpack before looking to Brittany. "When you speak to him, tell him I wish him nothing but the best." Her eyes filled and she began blinking rapidly. "Because I really do."

Brittany nodded and Rachel fled the room.

"The hell?" Santana wondered.

* * *

Burt knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door.

There was no music. There were no lighted scented candles. There were no delicious dinner odors.

The lights were all out.

That either meant that Kurt had a migraine or something really bad had happened.

He sincerely hoped it was the former, because otherwise he was going to have to knock some heads around. Actually, that sounded pretty good right now.

He walked into the living room and could barely discern a shape on the sofa.

"Buddy?"

"Hi, Daddy," Kurt whispered.

And Burt wanted to cry because he knew that meant someone had hurt his son. _Again_.

"Turn the light on, Kurt."

"Dad..."

"Now."

A gentle sigh later, the light clicked on.

"Look at me," Burt said.

Slowly, Kurt turned toward him, but wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Who the fuck did this?" Burt demanded. Jesus Christ! One entire side of his boy's face looked like it had been attacked with a meat tenderizer!

"It's not as bad as it looks," Kurt said softly.

Burt Hummel was not the most sensitive of men, but he knew his son. He knew what his son's words meant. And he knew these words meant someone Kurt knew had done this, not some random punk who was probably so far in the closet he was having tea with Mr. Tumnus.

"Who?"

Kurt sighed again. "It was an accident. Finn meant to hit Puck and I pushed Puck out of the way."

Burt gave a slow blink as he tried to assimilate this information. _Finn_ had hit his son? Noah was once again Puck?

"Why would Finn want to hit Noah, son?"

Kurt curled up in a ball on the sofa. There was no point in dancing around the subject because his father would just go to Finn and ask what had happened. Finn would tell him exactly what had transpired because the boy had absolutely no guile.

"Because he thinks Puck will do nothing but hurt me. He thinks I can do better than Puck. He said that Puck has made me into his whore."

Burt's eyes widened. "Say _what_ now?"

Oh, no.

Oh, _hell_ no.

There was _no fucking way_ he was going to let that little shitstain speak about his son that way. He liked Finn a lot, but Kurt was his _son._ That trumped everything. He hoped Carole would understand that. He thought she would.

"I never slept with Puck, Dad."

Burt felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Well, you have the right to your privacy, kiddo. If you want to talk about stuff like that, I'll gladly listen, but you don't need to justify yourself to me. I know you're a good kid."

Kurt's eyes shut and his lip trembled. "Not good enough."

Burt sat down on the sofa, lifting up his son's head and placing it in his lap. "I don't ever want to hear that kind of crap again. There's no one better than my boy."

Kurt's breath hitched.

"What happened, baby?" Burt whispered.

"The boy, Kevin, from my vision this morning? He's dead. Raped and murdered by his soccer coach."

Burt closed his eyes and swore softly under his breath. "Did you see his death, son?"

"No," Kurt said, and his father knew he was telling the truth, "but I saw his spirit in the locker room today when Sam was helping me clean up after my adventure with Finn."

"Did Justine get the son of a bitch?" Burt asked roughly.

Fucking pedophiles. He thought they should all be deballed and then lined up for a firing squad comprised of their victims.

Kurt gave a half-shrug. "Yes. She left me a voicemail."

Burt frowned. It wasn't like Kurt not to take Justine's calls, even while in class. "What happened this morning?"

"A double murder in Kettering, a congressman and his wife."

"You're working _that_ case?"

Kurt noted the panic in his father's voice and decided then and there he would say nothing about the note the killer had left for him, or the sense of unadulterated evil said killer had left in his wake.

"Justine just had me walk the scene," he said, praying his father would just let it go at that.

Of course Burt was not going to do any such thing. "Did you force a vision?"

Kurt didn't answer and Burt sighed.

"What else is going on, buddy?" Burt asked quietly. "I know there's more."

A sob broke free. "Puck's been sleeping with Quinn," Kurt rasped. "For almost as long as we've been dating."

Burt said nothing, all but glued his mouth shut, as he nodded and gently stroked Kurt's hair. He'd kill Noah later and then pick out a nice headstone.

"You tried to tell me," Kurt mumbled, on the verge of tears.

Burt wanted to slap himself upside the head. He should have just kept his fat mouth shut while letting Kurt make his own choices. The last thing his kid needed was to think his father was judging him.

"Noah loves you, son. Even I can tell that much."

"That's why it's so horrible," Kurt whispered, "and I probably could have forgiven him if not for..." he trailed off and fell silent.

"If not for what?"

Kurt remained silent.

"If not for _what_, Kurt?" Burt demanded.

He watched with horror as his son's face collapsed while tears streaked down his cheeks.

"He slept with Sam. How could he do that, Daddy? How could they do that to me?"

Burt didn't know. He honestly didn't know.

He pulled his son tight against him and let him cry, which was the only thing that kept him from grabbing a shotgun and chasing down Evans and Puckerman.

* * *

Several hours later in the middle of the night, Kurt screamed himself awake, grateful that his room was soundproofed.

He raced around his room, gathering as much as he thought he would need and packed a few bags.

He stole quietly out of the house, both guilty and relieved that his earlier pity party had so exhausted his father. Burt wouldn't be stopping him tonight.

He put his truck in neutral and let it slide out of the driveway. Once in the street, he started the engine but didn't turn on the headline until he had reached the next block.

He drove the speed limit until he reached the highway and then floored it to Dayton.

On the way, he called and reserved himself a seat on the next flight to Phoenix.

"I won't let it happen, Ariel," he whispered. "I promise."

* * *

**End Notes**: Yeah...so, one of the reasons I was so blocked with this story was because I couldn't decide whether to pair Kurt with Puck or Sam. Since I'm already writing that story in _Metamorphosis_, I decided that neither one would do for Kurt in this one. I'm unsure if Kurt will be paired with anyone at all. Now that the romantic elements have effectively been dispensed with, the story will focus more on the supernatural/mystery elements.

With this chapter ends Kurt's time in Lima for a while. He's off to Phoenix to hook up with Allison. The next significant portion of the story will take place there. There's also another possible crossover coming down the pike, but it won't impact the story severely and you won't be required to be familiar with the fandom to understand what's going on.

The song Kurt sang in this chapter is "You Love Me" by Kelly Clarkson, off her _Stronger_ album.

For Laynie, who believed in this story when no one else did. Thank you, my darling.


End file.
